I Hate Mondays

by James Mason

---

Friday lunchtime is always awful. Alone at her desk, Sally eats a prepacked sandwich. The bread tastes wet and sticks to the roof of her mouth. At the empty desks, geometric shapes moil on computer screens. The lift door makes a sucking sound as it opens, and George ambles out. Even from where she sits in the corner of the room, Sally sees how red his tie is behind the ranks of embroidered Bugs Bunnies that march up it towards the folds of his chin. His gaze sweeps the room and finds her, mouth full of sandwich and a fleck of mayonnaise daubed on her left cheek like a beauty spot. George’s face cracks into a pantomime smile, and he waves as if he’d spotted her in a crowded railway station.

“Sally!”

Her name in the quiet of the room sounds tense and embarrassed. She starts to put the rest of her sandwich back in its carton, changes her mind and throws it straight into her waste bin.

George’s body slumps towards his middle, with narrow shoulders and wide hips and bottom. He could be one of those old golden retrievers that huff as they walk, but still manage to barge into coffee tables and break ornaments.

“I thought I might find you here,” George says. A flicker of something passes across his face. “As it’s your desk.”

He perches one portion of his considerable bottom on the edge of the desk, displacing a stack of folders, which knocks over the closed bottle of water Sally had bought, along with her sandwich.

“Whoopsie,” George says.

He and Sally both reach for the bottle to set it upright. As George reaches across the desk, his outstretched hand almost touches hers. He snatches his hand back, puts it down on the desk, then jerks back. His palm comes away with a piece of paper stuck to it. George peels this off and finally leaves his hand collapsed across his biscuit-coloured trousers.

Sally smiles up at him. From this angle, the fat on his neck looks like raw sausage.

“How are you today, George?” she asks him. She had almost asked if she could help him. That would have been wrong. It is he who is helpful.

“Oh, you know me, barely working, or working barely.” He stands up abruptly and stuffs his hands into his pockets. His lips work quickly over the witticism he has ruined. His cheeks redden.

Sally pushes a smile up her face. He is only trying to be friendly, and, other than to check the status of the files she works on, who else speaks to her?

George shuffles, takes his hands from his pockets and stands like a messenger, his thumbs against the seams of his trousers.

“I, some of us, people from the office… There’s a group of us that go to Benny’s. There’s a deal on for tables of six, and John Henry’s had to pull out tonight, which only leaves us with five, so we won’t get the table nachos, and so we, that is I, that is the people, wondered if you’d like to join us. Afterwards, there’s Karaoke. If you like that sort of thing. Are you a singer? Do you sing?”

Benny’s. That would be nice. Everyone undoing their top buttons, making a big show of throwing the week off with exaggerated sighs and statements about the potency of the drinks they plan to order. George, overeager, revving at the conversation, demanding that Sally hear a story, “that funny one about Philip from Purchasing.” Everyone would sit at the table, stiff and blinking at being dressed so formally in that informal setting. They’d take small sips of their brightly coloured drinks or study the menu in great detail. The conversation would still be in the practical language of the office: shared deadlines, progress reports. After the second drink, the atmosphere would change – a great ball of pent-up energy exhaled. By drinks three and four, conversations would begin to overlap, loud laughter would crash over the table and swirl around the empty glasses and ketchup-smeared plates. By the fifth drink, someone else would tug on Sally’s sleeve, pull her towards the Karaoke to yell out Dancing Queen or Summer Nights from Grease. Then what? The night would become a syrupy smear, ending with shouted goodbyes and final punchlines. Then what? There was always a supermarket or off-licence open. Always someone, somewhere who’d want a nightcap. Always another drink waiting.

Her mouth has the same gluey feel as when she’d been eating the sandwich.

“We need you,” George says. “For the nachos.”

Sally clears her throat. There’s an itch running up her back. She curls her toes in her shoes and feels her calf muscles tighten. She has the urge to stand and be at the same level as George. Sitting, looking up like this, is ridiculous. The whole thing is: offices, drinks, the thin film of sweat on George’s top lip, the way he looks at her, not blinking.

“I can’t, George,” she says, adding, “not this time, anyway. Maybe sometime else.”

“Are you doing something with… your husband? I’m sure he won’t miss you for an evening.”

“No.” The word is abrupt. It is too quick. It comes down like a shutter on George’s fingers. Sally tries to smile, but the muscles in her face won’t do what she tells them.

“I have plans this evening, George. That’s all. But Benny’s sounds wonderful. Maybe next time?”

“Oh,” says George. He stands there for a moment, his lips working. “You don’t know what… have, have a nice evening.”

He turns and makes his way back through the rows of empty desks. Sally watches his wide bottom swaying. A thirst has swept over her. She is parched. Her tongue hot and furry. George is halfway to the lifts when he turns.

“You have mayo.” He points at his own cheek. Sally echoes his gesture and comes away with a blob of white on her finger. She pulls the sleeve of her blouse over her hand and uses it to scrub at her mouth. As George turns back around, Sally is scrubbing and scrubbing.

For the rest of the day, George arrives from the print room with his trolley full of paper, nudging it between desks, his bottom swinging behind it. Although Sally does not look up, George’s voice manages to float over the bass murmur of office noise. The word Benny’s keeps landing at her desk like paper aeroplanes lobbed in her direction. At five, she switches off her computer. She doesn’t save the half-written email that she spent the afternoon constructing. No one will read it anyway. She waits for the other workers to leave, watches as they barge through the exits, none looking back, as if the office is a drawer they can lock and drop the key in a pocket. There it is again, in the hubbub: Benny’s. George standing by the lift, like a pitchman: three for two cocktails; nachos. She takes a balled-up Kleenex from where it is tucked in the wrist of her sweater and smooths it out on the desk, pushing it as flat as possible. She folds it, folds it again and again until it is too thick to form another crease. Would they be at Benny’s now or still in reception waiting for taxis? The office has emptied, and there is only the noise of vacuum cleaners being bumped against furniture. A middle manager from another department comes out of the conference room. The snap as he flips the light switch off sounds like something breaking.

***

It is an automatic thing: reaching out a finger and ringing the bell so the bus sighs to a halt several stops too early. Although it is not yet six thirty, the pavements seem narrower than in daylight. People jostle between the wedges of dark and slabs of light thrown into the streets from the takeaways and taxis. Town has a brash, brassy smell of fast food and exhaust fumes. Sally hunches her shoulders and pulls her jacket around her. She replays the conversation with George, as she has all afternoon: his flinch as she said no. That flinch repeats. George jerks his head back. Each time, his eyes are wetter; brighter. The poor man was only being friendly. She licks her lips.

Benny’s used to be a church. Sally stands across the road and stares at it. There are footlights that flood the façade in red light. There are more of these lights just inside the Gothic arch of the doorway. It is a mouth – wet, inviting and thirsty. She hears the throb of music muffled by the thick stones. The noise flashes brightly as the doors swing open and people walk in and out. The austere building has become something else; there is a different type of reverence, something harsh and exotic. Actual churches aren’t like this. They are echoey rooms with moulded plastic chairs and dusty corners. They have tea urns that have the stale, standing water smell of swimming pool changing rooms; old ice cream tubs for the twenty pence pieces; the slippery feel of leaflets. Her blood is being pulled through her veins like a string. You can’t do this, says the voice in her head. But George invited you, it interrupts itself. Her mouth waters.

As if the stones have been peeled away, and she is already standing inside that cavernous doorway, she sees that there would be five of them. George would look up, a smile spreading across his wide face as he recognised her. He would leap up, pull out a chair for her, fidget with the dirty plates and tell her she’s missed the nachos, but would she like to join them for a drink?

Just one, then. Vodka, please. Just a single… a double then, with a thimbleful of orange squash and ice to the top of the glass, please, so the liquid is cold and underneath the sickly-sweet thrust of the orange there’s the sharper, delicious acetate burn of cheap spirits. Sally’s tongue goes numb, and the skin on her chest prickles as the thought of that delirious coldness scolds the pit of her stomach.

“Sally? Sally, isn’t it? Are you OK, there?”

The voice is low, concerned. The dark street pours back into her, like cold coffee. Sally sways – her legs seem too fragile to hold her. It is a young woman she recognises from the office, possibly an accountant, still with her lanyard on and her hair swept into a loose chignon. Her name could be Louise or Laura.

“We thought you weren’t coming.” The young woman crosses the road and reaches out to touch Sally’s elbow. “Is everything alright? You’re looking kind of shaky. Come in with me and I’ll show you where we’re all sitting.”

“No, no thank you.” Sally’s voice is husky. “I shouldn’t have come. But thank you.”

The young woman still has hold of Sally’s elbow.

“Maybe I could call you a taxi, or something. You can come in and sit with us while you wait.”

Sally is sure that Louise or Laura can feel her shivering, can see the way her hands tremble. This is terrible. Her face flushes and her chin quivers.

“George… could you get George, please? I think I need to tell him. He deserves an explanation.”

The young woman shrugs. “Shall I go get him? Or would you like to come in with me? Honestly, it’s nice when you’re there. We’ve got a quiet spot. George says it used to be the, er, transept.”

Sally doesn’t reply. Her breath is short and ragged. She is on the edge of awkward, ugly tears. The young woman shrugs again and disappears between the red lights back into Benny’s bright sneer.

When George appears, his red tie is looped around his head and the top three buttons of his shirt are undone. He stands, hands on hips, pushing his chest out in a parody of a superhero. The young woman punches him on the arm. His pose slackens, he pulls his tie off his head and stuffs it in his pocket. The young woman hands him his jacket. It looks, from across the road, like a homely gesture – a mother seeing her child off. He bounds across the road.

“Come for a drink,” he says. His breath smells of cranberries and garlic. There is a guacamole stain on his shirt.

“I can’t. Sorry, George. Sorry.” Sally turns to leave, but the town has become jumbled.

“No, not there, I know somewhere better.” He reaches out to touch Sally’s elbow, the same elbow that Louise or Laura touched. Sally pulls it away and then feels stupid, lets him hold her arm. His grip is gentle. “A hot drink. I know a place; I think you’ll like it.”

The café he takes her to looks meek and old-fashioned compared to the noise and fuss of the chicken shops and fast-food chains they’ve walked past. It has cutlery and cups with saucers. He buys them tea and jam doughnuts.

Sally feels George sitting opposite her, how his belly pushes against the table; there is something clumsy even in his shape. She won’t cry in front of him, she won’t. But they come anyway: big, humiliating tears. George sits across from her and studies the faded postcards of Grecian sunsets and white, Aegean beaches that someone has framed and hung over each of the tables. He gets up and goes to the counter, returning with paper napkins. Sally takes one and blows her nose.

“They’re always friendly here. It’s a nice place. Cosy,” George says. His plate and cup are empty. She has not touched hers; the doughnut looks hard and dry; the tea is cold.

“What do you want, George?” she asks. Her voice sounds scraped and haggard.

He grimaces, picks up the salt seller, pours out a small pile of salt and runs his finger through it.

“They’ll have to clear that up.”

“Sorry,” he says and uses the edge of his hand to sweep the salt onto the floor, then dabs his finger along his empty plate, searching out the last crumbs of sugar.

“I guess I want what everyone wants,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean anything, George. Sometimes what you want doesn’t want you. Even if you can’t help but need it.”

Grains of spilt salt grind under her plate as she slides her uneaten doughnut across to him.

“You think I don’t know that?” He sounds insulted. He rests his chin on his hands. “I’ve a secret.” Promise not to tell, won’t you? I don’t want people thinking I’m weird…Weirder.” He glances about, as if the empty café has filled with their colleagues. “My favourite day of the week is Monday. I know you’re supposed to hate it. Like Garfield: I hate Mondays.”

He uses a finger of each hand to turn Sally’s plate in semi-circles.

“And, you know, I think everyone feels it the same. About Mondays. It’s a relief from whoever you are outside the office. Just you’re not allowed to say it. It’s one of the unwritten rules – not saying. Even if no one spoke to me, I’d still enjoy it: coming back to work, finding everything just as I left it.”

“But everything’s muddled,” Sally says. “Just where you left it. It’s not that simple.”

“Everything’s always a muddle,” George agrees, except when he says it, he makes it sound like something to look forward to. “Tell you what,” he says, his face brightening again. “On Monday, I’ll wear my Garfield tie and, when you say good morning to me, you’ll see it and it can be a little joke between us.”

“There isn’t anything between us, though, George.”

“To be honest, Sally, that doesn’t matter.”

George picks up the doughnut and bites into it. A gob of jam spurts down his wrist.

Sally’s lips are chapped; her ribs ache with crying. She looks across at this ridiculous man. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead, and his chin shines with oil. She takes another of the napkins and reaches across to dab at the red mark on his cuff. What a pair they are. And he is right, in his own way: it doesn’t matter.