The Tuesday That Wasn't

and the cookie-based emergency

Right on the cusp of dessert, Jane became unsure if Tuesday was a question or an answer. She had tucked the last dumpling into her mouth and cracked open the fortune cookie laying on the receipt. Green onions lingered on her tongue as the tiny red font appeared.

It read: The end is near. Tuesday?

She paused. Jane thought about what the words meant. She dismissed it as a funny gift from Google Translate, which led her to absent-mindedly tuck the paper into her purse and savor the cookie’s sweetness.

When Jane left, the air was like a cool exhale walking with her. Her dark hair gathered around her shoulders, like dark rivers carved into a mountain. The sun was slowly setting, being digested by the sky.

The end is near. Tuesday?

It was like an invitation and a warning wrapped in one. Her thoughts fogged up her mind like the warm air did to her body after her shower. She threw on an oversized shirt and climbed into bed. Her dog asked for assistance to climb up as well. She helped.

Tuesday?

Right on the cusp of her first morning sip of coffee, she became sure that Tuesday was a warning. Caffeine revved up her nerves and shook her core behind her sleepy, blurry eyes. She made sure her dog sat patiently before digging into its own breakfast. Wait. Eyes locked on Jane. OK.

Jane retrieved the slip of paper from her purse. Which Tuesday? She thought about telling random people the unfortunate fortune she got. She imagined their responses.

A friend: Yea, Tuesday’s already come and gone. Can’t be real. Don’t live your life waiting in fear.

A middle-aged woman: Can’t be accurate - got divorced last Tuesday, and that was a beginning, not an end.

A sad man: Every day is the end.

A teenager: Tuesday? I mean, I guess.

Mom: We won’t know which Tuesday it will be. That’s life.

Dad: I’m playing pickleball on Tuesday.

Jane smoothed out the wrinkles on the slip of paper, like you would with your own aged face staring back at you in the mirror.

She imagined ancient cavemen carving Tuesday? into the walls, with imagery and hieroglyphics to capture a time they didn’t know existed yet. The scene moves like water, until war generals surface, watching smoke rise from the hills. Tuesday? Then, darkness surrounds mothers and their children in worn out frocks, dazed and huddled around a fire. Tuesday?

The floor upends itself into a neon-lit podcast, with millennials in hoodies, curled up on cozy chairs like cinnamon buns, breathing into microphones. Yea, and honestly, honestly, here’s my hot take - they clutch the microphone by the neck - Kay? My hot take is this: Tuesday… is just, another, day. It’s just that simple. Time is a construct, you know what I mean?

The ceiling melts like honey, dripping into rain, until objects are floating, and then sinking, and it is the bottom of the ocean. A creature she has never seen before blinks in the sand. Tuesday? It blinks again and floats away.

Jane comes up for air. She thinks about what it all means to her. She begins to recall that one Shakespeare quote she can never get quite right, but takes joy in paraphrasing by memory: That name with which we call a rose would still smell just as sweet.

Could any life smell just as sweet?

Jane takes a deep breath and lays down, thinking about hers. She lets fear wash over her like an ocean, with a tide that worships the moon, and never stops. The dull afternoon light peers in through the window, gray and indifferent.

Right on the cusp of a deep nap, her jaw is tense. Her molars press together like fossils. Time is unclear. The sun rises and sets; a sliver of the moon glows; and stars squint from far away. She looks for paths between the stars, hoping for meaning.

Her eyes are dark and worried but turn gloriously cinnamon when light pours into them. Her hair is scattered, like a slew of sentences scribbled in a rush. Her breath is there, tired and waiting.

Wait.

By the time she falls asleep, it’s Tuesday again.

OK.