Short story snippet II

Although she was awake, B. lay a little while longer in bed, not put off by the smell of sheets soured with sweat or the whine of voices on the alarm clock radio. It was Sunday and B. knew that as soon as she slid off the mattress and slid into her slippers, she would instantly be filled with the usual despair. 

In the same way that most people hate Monday mornings, B. hated Sunday mornings. She just didn't know what to do with herself on those particular a.m.'s, and she always had the vague feeling that she was missing out on something.

Something like spending a few lazy hours tangled up in the arms of a lover. Or brunching with friends and reminiscing about last night. Or even just leafing through a newspaper in a café. 

But that was never her Sunday morning.

When B. woke every seventh day, she immediately began puttering around the house, putting away stray books and arranging socks. She was eager to keep moving - to stay two steps ahead of the realisation that there was no lover to be tangled with, no friends to share reminisces with.

That she didn't even like reading the newspaper.

She stared at the alarm clock radio, which she had forgotten to disable on Friday. It had woken her up at this precise time on Saturday morning as well. The time at which she would usually rise to begin her work day.

B. screwed her eyes shut and fervently wished it were sweet, sweet Monday.