Tuesday

It is often said that Monday is the worst day of the week.

It’s not. Tuesday is.

Why? Because Tuesday is the start of my working week. Always beginning the same way with the dreaded morning alarm blaring out in the small confines of my bedroom, startling my sleep-riddled brain into consciousness. My phone seems to take pleasure in this act every workday morning, the vibrations of the alarm sending it dancing gleefully across my bedside table. Any dream remnants are brushed away as easily as cobwebs as my heavy eyelids struggle to open. Some strands manage to stick to the back of my mind and I strain to piece them back together, but ultimately fail. The broken storylines forever remaining on the tip of my tongue. The temptation to hit snooze for just another five minutes of peace is always there but my phone continues to dance out of reach, forcing me to leave the sanctuary of my bed.

Weak beams of sunlight filter through my blinds as I get ready for another day, reflecting off the glass of the family photo sitting on the nearby shelf. My impeccably dressed parents stand ramrod straight on either side of me with their hands placed on my shoulders. The familiar scent of my mother’s perfume had been a comfort in that stark white room, as the flash of the photographer’s camera had blinded me each time it went off. My neatly pressed collar had been too tight around my neck and I had strained not to fidget after being still for so long.

I remember my father’s hand painfully clutching my shoulder; a stern reminder to smile and look presentable for the photos. He had had such big plans for me; going to university, becoming a lawyer, getting married and having many children. His eyes had shone when he originally expressed these wishes but they gradually dulled with each year that had passed with no good news. When none of them had come true by the time I was thirty, they had darkened with perpetual disappointment. Announcing the news of my retail job had been the nail in the coffin, as he had refused to even look at me. I pick up the photo and study it, gently wiping off the collected dust with my pyjama sleeve. I try to imagine seeing pride in my father’s eyes.

Maybe in another life.

--

Six more hours. Just six more hours is the mantra that sounds in my head every time I step into work, the sliding doors beckoning me in with the promised chill of AC filtered air. My colleagues all greet me the same way, forced smiles decorating their faces and I can almost hear the same mantra being echoed back at me as I meet their gaze. The slam of my locker door and the clank of the key turning have become part of my routine, the sounds reminiscent of a bell signalling the start of my working day. My feet march me back to the shop floor and become glued to the spot as I take my place behind the till, the clock in the bottom of the till screen mocking me as the minutes ever so slowly slip away.

Just six more hours.

The chatter of customers is just a buzz of background noise as I dutifully scan items, the beep of the scanner so familiar by now. A magazine, pre-mixed latte and a strawberry breakfast bar make their way into a so-called reusable bag, which I have no doubt will be chucked as soon as this customer consumes the products within. This till seems to have become an extension of my body, my movements on autopilot and never stuttering as I ring up the total. The greetings, questions and goodbyes remain as scripted as ever and are rarely improvised unless a particularly chatter customer breaks the routine. This customer seems to be in the same mindset as me and follows the script without faltering, the clack of their shoes following them out of the store once the play has finished.

Just six more hours

The lull that follows the morning rush is a small respite that I look forward to each time. My feet unstick themselves as I make my way out from behind my station. The mess of magazines and newspapers catches my eye and I begin to obediently tidy them up, the headlines and slogans jumping out at me and promising me a flat belly in five weeks or telling me a Politian has, unsurprisingly, lied again.

The bright colours of the magazines are a beacon in this grey morning and I can’t help but pick one out and flick through the shiny pages, each one embezzled with a different celebrity tanned and toned to society’s view of perfection. It’s strange to think how changing one choice or deviating from your original plan could lead to a completely different existence. I stare at one of the celebrities and try to imagine my face on them. A polite cough of a waiting customer disrupts my thoughts and I turn back to reality.

Maybe in another life.

--

Coming home is always a mixture of emotions. The relief that another working day is over, but the slowly growing dread that the next shift is only a matter of hours away. Leftover tomato pasta is my choice of dinner for tonight, sluggishly revolving in the microwave as I decide which social media platform to scroll through. The rich taste of the food is barely noticeable as my eyes greedily consume what’s on my phone, photos of sunny beaches and animals performing tricks satisfying me more than the aromatic pasta would ever do.

In a cruel twist of fate the hours slip by faster than they do at work, my half-finished dinner sitting abandoned in the kitchen sink whilst my eyes remain glued to my phone screen as I lie in bed. The sky outside turns dark whilst my mind continues to fill with images that will come back to taunt me in my dreams; people my age travelling the world. They are the sort that don’t have a dreaded day of the week, each one bringing joy to them as they continue gallivanting across the globe. Mondays are swimming days, Tuesdays are rock climbing days and so forth. The clock ticks forward to midnight and thus, Wednesday begins. I wonder what today will bring to these people. Skiing? Scuba diving? Hiking? I set my alarm, put down my phone and prepare to go to sleep.

Maybe in another life.