Andrew J. Lederer

Yesterday, Elise and I walked around Chiswick.

We looked at antiques and had a lovely, somewhat Italian meal at which we shared a half-bottle of quite good red wine.

It was, I said happily, very civilized.

But, frankly, I was pretending it was Sunday. It was a great Sunday thing to do and the street would've been chock-a-block with couples, also doing Sunday. (I know this, 'cause I walked there a few weeks ago, alone.)

Unfortunately, I got up too late on Sunday and Elise wouldn't have gotten to West London much before dark, so Sunday was postponed.

Then, Monday dawned gray and foggy, not sunny like it was on Sunday, and I knew it was gonna be tough pretending it was the glorious day I had missed. But it was my fault I'd missed it. I've been hiding in slumber instead of facing the days and suddenly a day had come that I wanted to face and I wasn't ready.

So, I decided to make yesterday, gray as it was, the best make-up Sunday I could muster. I got up way early and was able to meet Elise around eleven, only about a half-hour later than planned. We had a great day, despite the Monday-like absence of men from the streetscape (and anyway, if it had been Sunday, we wouldn't've gotten the half-price coupon from the newspaper that enabled us to afford the subjectively expensive, Zizzi, where, as I said, we had wine and everything, and were ever so civilized).

I liked this living. I simply wasn't gonna hide from the day anymore.

And in tribute to my new approach to life, last night I decided to have wine with dinner, at home.

I prepared some pasta and was about to dine when I suddenly dropped a bottle of olive oil on the kitchen floor, smashing it to smithereens and covering the floor with an oil slick that would make the Exxon Valdez turn green with envy.

Still, despite my despair, I ate my pasta in terrible home-made sauce. (The oil's last culinary gift to the world was not a good one.)

And I drank my wine, fighting to remain civilized.

(Day is done.)

Early this morning, I awoke, fully capable of meeting the day rather than missing it.

But I went back to sleep, desperate to hide in slumber.

And now it's the afternoon.

I'm still lying where I sleep.

And the oil and glass are still on the kitchen floor below me.