A moment. Nothing is really happening. Friday, after work. Shoulders tired, body tired, head tired. But the workweek is over. Gliding homewards, the sense of Friday gliding alongside, into the darkness of early winter on a country highway; a fish among fish in a sea of red lights for taillights and white lights for headlights. Some fish live so deep in the sea they have to bring their own illumination.
It’s no holiday of a moment. No party, no happening. It is a quiet interim of gratification, of being done with duty, of being released upon a higher measure of freedom (sorely missed during the week).
It is Friday cracking on the eggbowl of the weekend.