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Rainy days and Mondays

The pounding rain and thunder woke me before my alarm. Good thing, since the storm had also knocked out the power. That meant a dark and cold shower, and no coffee. Being up early, maybe I would have enough time to stop on the way into the office. A Monday without copious amounts of caffeine should be illegal.

Stretching out in the still warm bed, my feet hit a pliable barrier… the mutt he said he was leaving behind to keep the house safe. Biggest baby in the world. The rattling windows and random flashes of light meant he was looking for solace and shelter with me. He was sadly mistake if he thought I would offer any sympathy.

Untangling my legs from the dog and the blankets, I swung out to the edge of the bed. Rubbing sleep from my eyes I didn’t see the homemade token of love the mutt had left for me. Undoubtedly his response to the clap of thunder that woke me.

Hopping on one leg to the bathroom to clean off the tepid piss, I cursed the incontinent mutt, his delinquent master and my inability to set boundaries. As I washed my foot in frigid water, the only illumination from the skylight, I realized that the effort it’s going to take to clean the soiled carpet would cut into my lead time for a coffee run.

I cursed the dog some more.

Hair cold and wet, shivering in the frustratingly dark room, clouds and rain obscuring even the merest traces of light, I hoped to at least have on shoes the same color. The dog finally ensconced in his kennel, his own feet and coat damp from a hasty run through the back yard for an unnecessary constitutional, I checked my watch, the only non-electric clock in the whole house. Not only did I not have an extra minute to stop for java, I didn’t have time to even hunt down my itinerant umbrella.

I cursed the ex some more.

Locking the front door, a steady stream of water poured from the eaves and splashed on the backs of my legs, the outside porch light flickered on just as the tumblers in the dead bolt clicked shut.

I cursed rainy Mondays.

Racing toward my car, dodging the rain and puddles with astounding obstacle course agility, I somehow managed to drop my keys in the worst of the potholes ensuring my total drenching.

Other motorists, apparently stupefied by the continuing downpour, seemed to have lost their ability to drive. Some few had pulled to the shoulder, undoubtedly in a near panic from the need to use wipers and headlamps simultaneously. I again lamented my lack of coffee. Hampered in my efforts by the maddeningly slow traffic, I re-calculated the time it would take to get to work. I weighed the pros and cons of being late and caffeine deprived, or really late with a grande skinny caramel macchiano.

That’s when I saw him. While internal combustion engine vehicles shunned the rain, clad in skin-tight cycling pants clearly intended for a child of five, this guy pedaled down the center of the lane. Unfazed by the precipitation and rooster-tail side wash of passing cars, he claimed his right to ride wherever he wished.

I felt the minutes ticking by waiting for a break in the long line of crawling traffic to pass him, and hoped for an epic swell of water to knock him from his gel-padded perch. I sent a prayer of thanks to the storm gods when he turned off the highway and my way was remarkably clear to proceed unimpeded.

Pulling into the packed parking lot, I had to settle for a spot that might as well have been miles from the front door. The rain showing no sign of letting up, I gathered all my work paraphernalia and a pair of well-worn sneakers from the back seat to exchange later for my ruined Mary Janes, readying for the mad dash I knew was needed.

Rushing into the office foyer, having wrestled with the heavy glass doors as my thoughtful co-workers watched from the comfort of the dry lobby, I shook the excess water from my clothes and hair. As the rain puddled at my feet, I noticed that I had indeed donned one brown and one blue shoe.

Water squishing from my mismatched flats, I made my soggy way to my office. My secretary, a steaming mug in hand, exchanged my wet attaché for the longed for coffee. Following me into the room, she pulled a dry towel from somewhere in my supply closet, draping it over my shoulders as I inhaled intoxicating caffeine fumes and kicked off my soaking shoes.

A second towel materialized as she began wiping down my desk and bag, humming a familiar tune.

“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down…”

Grateful for her assistance, the coffee and warm feet, I politely waited until she left…

“Fuck the Carpenters… I don’t like Mondays!”

This week my Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Dili at sispheanisms: words of amaruwan – “Rainy days and Mondays always make me….”

I sent my challenge to Ixy at Illusion – “That’s my story, I’m sticking with it.”

Interested in joining the Challenge? Stop by Indie Ink for details.

16 thoughts on “Rainy days and Mondays Leave a comment

  1. The only two things that can ruin a thunderstorm in my world are Mondays involving dog-related gunk on the floor or a tornado. You nailed the first one and made the rest of the morning sound like a tornado would’ve been a relief. Great job!


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