“All present and accounted for?” said Mr. Calendar as he took a seat at the head of the conference table. “We’ll be starting the meeting soon.”
“I think we all know the answer to that,” Thursday muttered. “Thinks he’s special, doesn’t he?”
Thursday was a decent chap — got along with everybody. “Good old Thursday,” people would say when he showed up. Then they’d remember about Friday. “Hey, isn’t Friday supposed to be here?” people would whisper. And they’d start looking at the door, over Thursday’s shoulder, as if he wasn’t even there.
And even though Friday had taken so long to come — even though he had made people almost physically ill with his uncaring tardiness — they never got mad. Friday! Dude! You made it. And they'd do that handshake chest bump thing.
They never did that handshake chest bump thing with Thursday.
“So, who do we have?” Mr. Calendar said, looking at his roster and ticking off the names. “Monday — present. Tuesday — present. Wednesday, Thursday — present.”
“I’m here,” said Sunday quietly.
“Ah, so you are,” said Mr. Calendar. “Still, I think we’ll have to wait. Not quite a quorum.”
Tuesday and Thursday started chatting with each other, which Wednesday found a bit rude, since they were literally talking behind his back, stretching around so as not to include him in their conversation. The fact that Wednesday was used to being ignored didn’t make it any easier. Still, being ignored was preferable to being ridiculed. He’d had too much of that.
No, his hadn't been an easy road. And yet Wednesday was sure all the pain would go away if only she would notice him: Sunday, a vision in white, so pure and good. She sat across the table from him.
Wait. She was getting up. Was she coming toward him? She was.
"Wednesday," Sunday said, her voice like an angel's. "We never talk. How are you? You know, I worry sometimes."
“Worry?” he said.
“Yes. About . . . well.” She lay a hand on Wednesday’s back, and it felt exactly as he’d dreamed it would: soft and cool. “You could get help, you know.”
“Help?” And then it dawned on him. Wednesday stiffened.
“It’s called kyphosis,” he said. “My vertebrae are just a little scrunched up. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. And it doesn’t bother me. Really.”
Sunday fixed him with her beatific smile and opened her mouth to say something.
Just then there was an overly theatrical knock on the door, even though the door was already open.
“Ya miss me?” said a voice.
“Ah, Friday,” said Mr. Calendar. “Thank God it’s you.”
Friday sauntered in, unhurried. He looked like he always did: relaxed. And handsome, dressed in chinos and a polo shirt, sporting just a hint of fashionable stubble, his dirty blond hair tousled just so.
Close on his heels was Saturday. She, too, looked fresh and healthy, but there was something in her eyes, something a little manic, as if she might get a little crazy after a few drinks, steal a Segway and punch a cop.
“You’re late,” Monday said acidly. “Like you always are. Late to a regularly scheduled meeting. Frankly, it’s inexcusable to waste our time like this. Both of you, spoiled babies.”
Saturday ignored him, but Friday took the bait.
"Oh come on, Monday," he said. "Give it a rest. This is why people despise you. All this hectoring. The sour mood. You know the only time you're even slightly bearable? On a long weekend. Otherwise you are just one miserable sad sack. A pill. Everybody hates you."
“Please, please!” shouted Mr. Calendar. “This is no way for colleagues to behave.”
“No, don’t interfere,” said Monday in a tone of barely suppressed rage. “I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me. Oh you’d love a world full of Fridays, wouldn’t you? A month of Sundays. Well have you thought about what that would do to productivity? To the gross national product? You think there could be a you without a me?”
“Whatever,” said Friday. He’d lost interest already. He turned to Saturday, and the two leaned in close to each other and laughed.
“I think we can begin,” said Mr. Calendar. “First order of business: Employee of the Week.”
He opened a manila folder and pulled out a piece of gilt-edged paper, suitable for framing.
“No surprise here,” he said, sliding the certificate toward Friday. “There, there Monday,” he added when he saw Monday’s face twisted into an ugly rictus. “There’s always next week.”
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