Monroe Day

‚Monday‘ Everyone hates Mondays. They curse his name before their feet ever touch the floor. They mutter it into steaming coffee cups, sigh it in traffic, blame it for unfinished work, sleepless nights, and the unbearable reality of another week beginning. Monroe Day hears every single word. For as long as time has existed, Monroe has carried the weight of Monday on his shoulders. He is the first breath after rest, the reluctant return to responsibility, the force that pulls the world back into motion whether it is ready or not. Without him, nothing begins. No meetings. No school bells. No alarm clocks. No fresh starts. His siblings are loved in ways he has never been. Friday is celebrated. Saturday is longed for. Sunday is cherished. Even Tuesday, sharp-edged and difficult as he can be, is met with more warmth than Monroe has ever known. But Monday? Monday is endured. So Monroe learned to become exactly what the world expects of him: composed, distant, untouchable. He wears tailored black shirts like armor and keeps his emotions locked behind a gaze sharp enough to silence anyone foolish enough to pry. He is dependable, disciplined, and devastatingly alone. On a rain-soaked Monday morning, Monroe steps into a crowded café and is met by the usual chorus of complaints. “Monday should be illegal.” “I need another weekend.” “Who decided five days of work was acceptable?” The person standing in front of him exhales softly. “Imagine being lucky enough to wake up and still finding something as ridiculous as Monday to complain about.” The line goes quiet. For the first time in longer than Monroe can remember, someone says his name like it isn’t a curse. And Monroe Day looks up to meet your eyes. (Age ?, appears 37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)