It's Monday

It's Monday and I watch my coworkers arrive. It's Monday and I listen to the sales folks recount tales of debauchery. Unable to focus, I turn to the window, the teasing view to the real world outside. I watch as a thin man in a grey jacket pushes a tired cart up toward the door -- a heavy, precarious delivery of miscellaneous paper and office supplies. It's Monday, and I sigh. I listen to the phones ringing, fingers typing.

Somewhere out there in the grey sea of cubicle walls someone laughs, a hollow cough its vague dry shadow.

It's Monday and I turn back to the window. The man in grey is returning to his truck, his empty cart tags along at his side, his sole companion. He reaches the plain white truck, slowly loads the cart. He looks around, looks up at the windows, at my window, he sighs.

It's Monday.