F

Ever since she had left him, back in the day, a hate for Fridays was ever present in him. Grunting he would wake up on the eve of weekends, thinking of that dreadful hours ahead. It wasn't like he hated entire Fridays, for he often enjoyed the morning duties, but it was afternoons, Friday afternoons that brought such a sadness into him.

What actually bothered him was to have a Friday afternoon routine, particularly one which was identical to any other weekday routine. Going back to work like every other day after an ordinary meal, and going home at night walking the same path to the just-as-usual crowded metro and arriving home to the same old computer. In part it was the company he missed, but above all he missed the novelty of every single Friday, the adventure of finding something new and exciting to eat and something unheard-of and relaxing to do afterwards.

It was then that he felt the most the weight of life upon his shoulders. As if every single failure, forgotten dream or angsty hour, added a gram or two to a burden that he carried since childhood. He would look down at his footsteps behind when he stepped on loose ground, trying to see if his feet sank more than usual in those Friday afternoons, when his beloved dusk seemed to scream at him: you fool!.