“Monday mornings aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh,” I made a face, then straightened my gloves while stepping around a puddle of pool water.Monty scoffed, then set his textbooks down on an inflatable pink pool float, then scoffed again, not satisfied with his initial effort. “Everyone always complains about Mondays. It’s predictable. It’s yawn-worthy. It’s like the big fight scene at the end of a blockbuster, which the audience can see from five miles away. Or the sun setting. Or the cherry in a Shirley Temple. Why not just say the sky’s blue, Fair? Monday-complaining, pah! It’s the worst. Aren’t you glad you’ve been granted another week to get things done? To make things right or start anew?”
Gomery strode by. A pile of folded towels teetered in his hands as he, too, stepped around the same puddle of pool water. “Time--”
“—is a social construct,” I finished. “I know the old trope. And if we don’t observe the days, and their defined edges and proper names, how do we know when to, like, go to the dentist? Or when we’re having lunch with a friend? We can’t exactly make up day names, willy-nilly, now that we’ve all agreed that Monday is Monday.”
“So take the good with the Mondays,” suggested Monty. “Or de-Monday Monday, somehow.”
Monty and I watched as the towel-carrying young man suddenly placed the soft tower on the ground. Gomery pushed Monty’s books from the inflatable pink float, tossing it into the shallow end. He then proceeded to fall backwards onto the inflatable, trust fall-style, soaking much of his corduroys in the process. Closing his eyes, he hand-pedaled towards the deep end.
“De-Mondaying Monday!” Monty shouted at his cousin, before shrugging at me. Then he gathered his textbooks and sauntered back inside the Fairwil.