Monday

It was just at dusk, the time when the noises of the city turned into mere echoes and the people filtered out with the light. It was the time of day when people were rushing to beat the shadows that lurked in the ugly places, in the cracks and crevices and holes that were hidden during the day. Paul was listening closely; he was sure that when he was quiet enough he could hear the walls of the shops sighing. Mary chewed thoughtfully, looking at him from across the galvanized steel barrel that had become their combination stove/fireplace as well as their daily meeting point. They had decided that it was necessary to have such a spot; one could easily get lost in the heat and dirt of the city, among all the other many lonely, broken people haunting the various corners and alleyways scattered about.

Tonight, it was leftover Egg Fu Young from Chee Weng’s. They always had Chinese, every Monday night. Tuesdays it was generally El Sombrero, Wednesday was O’Brien’s Potato House, and Thursdays was Luigi’s. The weekend belonged to the paying customers, the businessmen who brought their wives and children, young boys mooning over the pretty girls tempted from their safe beds with the thought of secret glances thrown around, a furtive squeeze under the table, perhaps a stolen kiss. But tonight was Monday, and so Mary and Paul removed their tattered gloves and hats and pressed on through the salty beef and lukewarm eggs, watching as the city dressed itself for bed and tucked itself into the stifling, woolly night.