The 33rd day of the month
Thirty and thirty-one have been the norm since forever. Twenty-eight, just once a year. Twenty-nine, take a break, you are just a guest. The monotony of this rhythm is such that I tend to forget what's after 31. "Oh, it's 32, OK." And this happens when the calendar flips over to '1.'
"Double you tee eff aree you tryin to tell?" asked Rob, in a tone that highlighted his labor at learning proper English. He shook Ron violently who was fast asleep. Ron didn't have to count any sheep; he was exhausted of late and been as lazy as the sloth he spotted during his recent trip to South America. For work. "Work? South America? What you have office in that country?" pondered Rob.
Ron didn't seem to move an inch. Rob stuffed a whiskey-soaked cloth in his mouth as Ron continued to flounder his dialogue.
I have been working for more hours than a human can ever manage. It's like borrowing a few hours from the next day to this day. And then more from the day after to tomorrow. It's an endless cycle until the eye stops blinking. "My eyes aren't blinking now." He tee-heed, the cloth holding still. Heart stops beating, I must say. But it's a thing now. If cycling or walking for kilometers was work from that generation, typing tens of thousands of words a day is perhaps worker. You know what I mean? Like comparative? Like work-worker-workest? OK.
"Workest? Workest is bad. Fatigue. Stress can murder. Scary I feel." Rob felt a trap in Ron's speech in slumber. He bit his tongue while cracking on a KrackJack. He wet his tongue with the whiskey in front of him. He added two cubes of ice. He licked one before he spluttered them both into his glass.
People around are not so kind. Sometimes. How would they know what's racing in the mind and beating in the heart? Would the moist eye be seen as a tear? Silence is not shy, always, you know. There are ten thousand thoughts thundering together. The concoction continues to cripple sanity. I don't seem to distinguish solitude from socialness. When one's on top, the other wants to take over. I am tired. Drained.
"You drank much. Not good. Seem to saying many words instead of typing. You are upset?"
I fear that if a month goes by, the other's as worse. Days after days, it's a worn out tape.
"What's problem, Ron? I sure not it's not worker but something more. Girl? Money? I happy to help. Tell." Rob poured more whiskey. This time he got four cubes of ice.
Ron fell silent. The cloth still stuffed in his mouth. He coughed up. Briefly opened his eyes and sucked phlegm back into his nostrils. He went back to sleep. Almost like a reflex.
Ron kept silent.
"I wait to you be up. From sleep. And the sadness. I there, my friend." Rob muttered. He meant it. As a guy who's been through some turbulence himself, he knew the troubles would soon be over.
I miss her. When I miss her, I dearly miss her. That's when one in the thousand words begins to make sense. Love. Months and days feel nothing, then. Ron fell silent again.
"Understand. You miss her, my friend. Happy that whiskey worked. Stress is nothing when love knocks." Rob realized that he emptied the bottle of the finest Macallan Ron got for him. His heart sank.
Ron fell asleep. For real. Rob chugged the rest of his glass.
"Hey but 28 and 29 come all month, no?" Rob said glugging the last drop of his drink.