Wednesday gave us the game.

Then gave us 325.

Then gave us one of those nights
           that stops pretending
               to be a weeknight
       somewhere around midnight.

Cuddles.

Chats.

The kind of close
    that makes the room
    get quiet

    for the right reasons.

Long about four,
     you made your exit

     graceful,
     clean,
     entirely you.

No drama.

No big production.

Just the walk to the Lyft,
                 the soft edge
                   of goodbye,
        and me standing there
        with the good kind of tired

        still in the room.

Then Thursday woke up
     and immediately found an itinerary.

World Cup opener
      at Irby’s,
      which for a while
      felt less like a bar
      and more like a dog park

      that happened to have soccer on.

Orca.

Lilly.

Coal.

Six-ish other dogs
        working the patio

        into a treaty under the tables.

Mexico versus South Africa.

Mexico, two-nil.

Which is a very tidy score
      for a day
      that had no intention

      of being tidy.

Back to 325
     for a power nap,
     because apparently
     we are adults now

     and must schedule our irresponsible choices responsibly.

Then King Ron.

F1 Arcade.

Lights out.

Buttons.

Turns.

Laughing.

The whole room
    making speed
    feel like something

    you could reach out and grab.

Ron,
    as always,
    thoroughly engaging
    and somehow
    already mid-story

    before the story officially begins.

We left on a high note
     around ten-thirty,
     which is how adults say:

     let’s go somewhere else
     before we admit we’re done.

So,
   one last quick drink at Irby’s.

One more little
    neighborhood checkpoint.

One more place
    where the week
    could look around
    and say:

    yep, still working.

No 325 this time.

Coal needed you.

So the Lyft came,
   and you were out,
        clean again,
         easy again,

   leaving the night without bruising it.

I settled back in at 325
           with the dogs
     waiting like saints

     who had absolutely considered sin…

     but chosen restraint.

They earned their walk.

Every step of it.

So out we went,
   me and the good dogs,
   the night finally cooling

   into something Atlanta could call mercy.

Then sleep.

Actual sleep.

The deep kind.

The body finally
    putting the phone down

    inside itself.

And somewhere in there,
      soft as a secret
      I didn’t have to chase,

      dreams of you.

The gentle version
     of everything
   the waking week
  had already been
     trying to say.

It’s going fabulous.

That’s the only word
       with enough grin in it.

Fabulous.

Wednesday gave us close.

Thursday gave us speed.

The dogs gave us grace.

Sleep gave me you,
      all over again.

And somehow,
    after all that,
    the calendar
    is standing there
    with its hands
    in its pockets
    saying:

    buddy,

    it’s still just Friday.