Wednesday, If You’re Listening

Wed, 10 Jun 2026 07:16:18 -0500

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I had one of those dreams
where the day
already knew
what it was supposed to do.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Wednesday showed up
wearing a headset,
carrying a clipboard,
acting like it had been
project managing joy
since before sunrise.
“Coffee?”
Yes, Wednesday.
Obviously.
Then it handed me
a cup labeled:
DO NOT OVER-EXPECT
which felt rude, but probably fair.
In the dream,
Madison Square Garden
had somehow been built
onto the patio at Irby’s.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Section 126
where the dart board was.
The Knicks bench
blocking the route to the bathrooms.
Patrick “Overtime”
walking through
with that look
like he’d seen weirder on a Wednesday.
Trivia started at eight.
Tip-off started at eight-thirty.
Nobody saw a conflict.
Dream rules.
One round was
“Things Mari Says With Her Eyebrows.”
We swept it.
One round was
“NBA Finals Teams That Should Know Better.”
The Knicks filed a formal complaint.
Rejected.
By Orca.
Who was,
naturally,
the commissioner.
Coal served as judge,
black-lab serious,
deeply unimpressed
with everybody’s handwriting.
King Ron appeared
wearing a crown
made entirely of unused F1 Arcade tokens.
Apex explained DRS
to a confused Jalen Brunson.
The Spurs mascot
ordered mozzarella sticks
and somehow paid with Canadian dollars.
Nobody questioned it.
Again:
Dream rules.
And there you were.
Not magically healed.
Not grief-free.
Not because dreams
get to fix
what real love
has to hold.
But lighter.
A little.
Enough for the corner
of your mouth
to remember
where the smile starts.
Enough for your laugh
to show up
five minutes late,
but still…
completely worth waiting on.
Enough for me
to stop watching
the sadness over your shoulder
and just watch you.
The scoreboard said:
SPURS 108
KNICKS 103
SERIES 2–2
MARIPOSA SMILED: YES
Which seemed excessive
for a jumbotron,
but I’m not in charge
of dream typography.
There were other signs.
The trivia answer sheets
folded themselves
into tiny airplanes
and flew toward the basket.
Every wrong answer
turned into a nacho.
The patio lights leaned down
like they wanted to hear you better.
My phone kept buzzing
with calendar invites
from the universe:
8:00 PM — make her laugh if possible
8:30 PM — Spurs, please do your job
10:45 PM — don’t ruin the hug
11:00 PM — no notes, just be there
I accepted all of them.
Obviously.
Then Wednesday
tapped the clipboard
and said:
“No promises.”
I said:
“I know.”
It said:
“She might still be sad.”
I said:
“I know.”
It said:
“The Knicks might win.”
And I said:
“Let’s not say things we can’t take back.”
That’s when you laughed.
The real one.
The one that makes
the whole room
improve its posture.
The one that makes dogs look up
like somebody opened the treat cabinet.
The one that makes me forget
every clever line
I had planned
and become
just a man
lucky enough
to be nearby
when it happened.
Then I woke up.
Rude.
No Garden.
No trivia sheets
becoming nachos.
No commissioner Orca
overruling New York
on procedural grounds.
Just Wednesday.
Real Wednesday.
Unwritten.
Standing there
with the whole day
still in its pockets.
So listen, Wednesday,
if you’re listening:
I don’t need perfect.
Don’t get cocky.
Don’t try to become
the dream exactly.
That’s how days
pull a hamstring.
Just be kind.
Give her a little air.
Give grief somewhere to sit
that isn’t directly on her chest.
Give the Spurs
one clean quarter
when it matters.
Give trivia
one question
dumb enough
for us to argue about on purpose.
Give the pups
their usual jurisdiction
over everybody’s feelings.
And if there’s room,
if the schedule behaves,
if her heart
can carry the night
without having to carry it alone,
give us
the couch,
the game,
the dogs,
the smile,
the her.
Not as a guarantee.
Not as a demand.
Just as a dream
I woke up
still wanting
and a Wednesday
I’m trying very hard
not to scare off.

Cuddle Quarter

Tue, 09 Jun 2026 07:49:52 -0500

Monday did
what Mondays do.
First grooming for Orca.
Goodbye,
puppy eye crusties.
Then back to 325 Paces,
where Lily rolled in,
Orca's pal for the week,
while her momma chased beach time
down Panama City way.
By evening,
you were the question mark.
Not feeling so hot.
All day.
The kind of text
that makes a whole plan
wobble on its little legs.
I thought maybe
the night was done
before it got to be a night.
Then tip-off got close.
Knicks and Spurs.
Game three.
New York up two
after stealing both
in San Antonio.
And there you were,
somehow,
still you.
“Should I bring Coal?”
Absolutely.
Bring Coal.
Bring yourself.
Bring whatever version of Monday
can still make it
through this rain.
Because the patio was perfect.
Light crowd.
Wet air.
All-day rain
doing that soft little miracle
other people call weather
but I call: magic sky water.
Mojave kid.
Vallarta years.
I still can’t get enough
of the thing
I spent so long
wishing the sky would do.
We watched the first half
from Irby’s patio
with all the pups
tucked into the edges
of the game.
Then Taco Bell to the door.
The walk across to 325,
food,
couch,
dogs.
Then apparently
basketball happened
somewhere in the room.
I know this
because you stayed awake
like a professional
and woke me
one minute from the final whistle.
Spurs pulled it off.
Clawed one back.
Made it look
like a competition again.
Good.
And after all that,
after the rain,
after the pups,
after the Taco Bell,
after the quarter I absolutely didn’t witness…
you left the way you always do.
Clean.
Easy.
One quick hug
that somehow
doesn’t make a production
of being exactly what I needed.
Perfect Monday.
Even the part I slept through.
Maybe… especially the part I slept through.

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Wednesday, If You’re Listening

Cuddle Quarter