XXXVIII. Only Wednesday.

The Little Martian hobbles into my cold damp room and takes in my disheveled olive tank top and bright blue shorts

there is an incepack near my bed, an open bottle of volini wafting its pungent smell around the room.

My ass hurts, my back is sore, brian the brain is tired of trying to make fun shit happen.

The unmade bed lounges lazily across me, and the wet stickiness of post-rain Sonipat lingers in the room, John Mayer understands me over the speakers

The martian notes my unwashed hair, my bare face, the bra strewn on the desk chair, the general lack of array

“Long week” I mutter, flatly

“It's only Wednesday “ he states, plain and clear.

I almost glare at him but then remember

It's only Wednesday.