Impressions of the Days

When I was a child, I used to think, for some reason, that each day of the week had its own character. I still believe this although my impressions of the days have changed and evolved over time.

	Monday was the boring accountant with the monotone voice who always stuck to safe options and told the same joke for 30 years. Drank martinis as rewards.
	Tuesday was the shy sister that dreaded attention, who kept her change in a tatty purse. Shopped in dollar stores and fed stray cats from the back door.
	Wednesday was the loyal wife and mother whose  inherited religion and sense of dedication saw her through hard times. Sang old songs in the kitchen when everyone was out of the house.
	Thursday was the failed businessman who took to drink. The man with the undefined illness who had started out with such promise and is now beyond even our pity.
	Friday was the photogenic son that burned his candle at both ends. The talkative dreamer with too much on his plate. Headed for trouble, the elders will tell you.
	Saturday was the show-girl turned whore. Ends up with the wrong guy who likes to slap her around by midnight. Never look back, she liked to say with tears in her eyes.
	Sunday was the grey-haired judge and reformed alcoholic. Circumspect and self-important. Lived with his slave-wife in a tall white house on a hill. Admired by those who did not know him well.

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