Monday
Some fiction about the anxieties of Monday You know how it works. You wake, get in the shower, brush your teeth, chuck on some clothes, grab some toast and your bag, and rush out the door. It’s like any other Monday. At the train station there is a man you don’t recognise from the normal 7.13 commuter crew, smoking at the end of the platform. Despite the weather he is wearing a heavy coat and has curious slicked-back hair that is thinning. The slick-back is a statement of defiance. Fuck you baldness. I’m proud. The acrid smoke stings your nostrils …