Monday, Monday. So good to me.

I’m like, what? I’m like, Bob Geldof tell me again, why? Boomtown Rats, don’t like Mondays? How can you not when a glistening, tattooed artist comes over to start your week? While your son is at work across the street and could bop in any time for his lunch and a fast quickie game of chess. Vite. Vite.

I’ve barely had my coffee, still recovering from the weekend. Just opened the NY Times. Getting ready to get ready to get to work. Oh bye son, have a good morning at work! See you at lunch!

10:05 He texts, “be there in 5 get naked.” I listen. He’s here in 5.

Check the shot clock. Let the games begin. In Olympic time:

10:10 Catch up (how was your weekend? I look tired, concerts parties, oh what a hard life, no you look great, thanks been swimming a lot, oh where?) Clothes are flying off, careful not to hit the chessboard that my son has set up to save time of his lunch hour.

10:11 Starting block.

10:12 He I forgot how good you were at that. She, I forgot, why has it been so long? He: You were in Costa Rica and didn’t text me you were back.

10:15 a little chit chat in the lady lounge. She, you whore – ticulturist holy

10:20 a little nosh on the heizen frozen. Grande heizen frozen.

10:25 Fast and lovingly furious. Second time world champion.

10:26 Clean up, catch up (oh the paper, want anything? coffee? i’m good, like your shirt) action

10:27 out the back door cause son could come in the front. Bye, text you later for dinner.

Bam! Who doesn’t love a Monday? Chess, anyone?

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