After dinner, before bedtime, there's this lull where we see the hours drop off, one by one, as the clock inches us toward Monday. We are neither in the glory of the weekend, lush with time and full of promise, where we spend the moments like there'll always be more, nor in the final rush of the downward slope, where speed is sufficient to carry us through.
I get my hair cut, walk the dog, cook dinner, play a video game, watch some television. It's raining: we open a window, smell the wet air, clean up our plates, take a shower, try not to think about tomorrow, think about tomorrow, try to get some sleep.
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