The Hour I Stole From Tuesday

I called in sick. I wasn't sick.

Dropped the kids — one missing shoe,

a permission slip, the radio too loud,

the usual disaster — and instead of taking

the on-ramp I just kept going straight.

The novel had been on my nightstand

since October. October before this one.

I cracked the spine for the first time

and held it flat on the table with both hands.

Ordered a large. Then a second large.

The shop was nearly empty.

A woman grading papers in the back.

The sound of the steamer, then nothing.

I read forty pages

and felt, for roughly forty pages,

like a person with that kind of room in them.

Drove home. Got into bed with an extra layer on,

just in case someone called.

No one called.

It's been five days

and that hour is still the best part of the week.

I keep deciding that's fine.