Breakfast on Tuesday

1. Grumpy girl

Unlike other people, the day of the week I hated the most was Tuesday.

The days of the week had personalities, at least they did for me, and I secretly despised them all. I never quite understood why Monday got so much hate when in reality every single day sucked.

Monday was a tired old man who survived prostate cancer and still couldn't do anything with that win because his bones hurt like a motherfucker whenever he moved.

That's exactly what yesterday felt like. Now today, just like any other bitchy Tuesday, I struggled to wake up.

Tuesday was the stuck-up, sex deprived bitch who desperately needed to be dicked down but was too proud to sleep with anyone who didn't meet her impossibly high standards.

The first thing I always yelled on Tuesday morning after snoozing my alarm to death was, "Bitch!," and today wasn't any different. That statement was always followed by a deep groan of displeasure, and this morning it was deeper and grumpier than ever.

Waking up angry was my jam and it felt great to be mad at the universe simply because I hated Tuesdays and I hated winter. People who loved both needed to check themselves into a mental facility.

I was a sleep procrastinator to my core and would do everything within my power to stay awake at night. Why go to sleep when there were so many things to be grumpy about? I hated going to bed, but once asleep, I hated waking up.

What a dilemma I had created for myself. I absolutely disliked how good and warm my bed felt whenever I had to get out of it. Why wake up when the world would only find more things to help keep my grumpy nature alive?

Honestly, I hated a lot of shit, including soggy cereal and boiled eggs that refused to peel properly. Hence why I almost always skipped breakfast.

The other reason, and maybe the only reason I always skipped breakfast was that I was always running late. It was usually about five minutes, but that was enough reason for me to leave the house with a sour sulk on my resting bitch face.

It was still dark and foggy outside when I hopped on my yellow bike to get to the university. All my classes started at eight-thirty, and in the winter, biking twenty minutes in the bitter cold was not something I enjoyed doing. On most days, my best friend Eva would come along for the ride, but the poor thing had to stay at home today because she had the flu.

It was the last day of school right before the Christmas vacation and she had to go and get herself sick. How was I supposed to survive a whole day of uni without her?

But first, I had to get there on time. We had an exam right after the vacation and I had to take notes for both me and Eva.

My bright headlight tried its best to penetrate through the thick fog, and yet I couldn't see anything further than my nose. My cheeks and ears were frozen from the wind, and the unforgiving mist that turned into water droplets on my skin had me shivering like I was on crack.

Just over a year ago, I was an island girl and no amount of winter clothes could prepare me for this dreadfully cold weather.

The start of the bike ride was always frigid, but my body usually warmed up about ten minutes in. By the twenty-minute mark, I would be sweating like a pig, so, I tucked my head in and biked like the devil was chasing after me.

Because once again on a bitchy Tuesday morning, I was five minutes late.

I never wore a beanie over my head and ears because my ever changing hairstyles, except maybe for my box braids, always got in the way. The high puff always looked ridiculous and made it seem like I had a conehead.

I'd been meaning to get earmuffs, the kind that looked like headphones, but never got around to it. So yeah, my laziness had my ears frozen solid. I was convinced that a flick of a finger would cause them to fall off.

I was about five minutes away from the university when a car suddenly lost control and drove over the sidewalk directly in front of me. Without thinking, I squeezed both of my handbrakes and tried to turn the steering wheel all at the same damn time. It was an idiotic combo of a move and it packed quite a punch.

The unforeseen momentum sent me crashing into a set of tables at a recently opened roadside restaurant.

I screamed and let go of the bike.

The bike landed on its side and I skidded on the wet floor before my head met the ground with a loud thud. I felt like I was a bowling ball sent spinning on ice to knock down metal poles. Upon impact, black dots appeared and started floating behind my eyelids.

In the distance, I heard the sound of the car that had lost control driving off, its engine roaring down the street in the opposite direction I was biking to get to the university.

They were probably drunk. No, I was certain they were drunk. No one drove like that sober.

A shadow fell over me and I could feel the weight of a stranger's stare on my face right before he started yelling. "What the hell is wrong with you, woman? It's too early to be this drunk. Your bike hit me in the leg and damn it all, it fucking hurts!"

The stranger said all of this in Spanish, the words spilling out of his mouth faster than I was used to. A mixture of anger and amusement tainted his voice and my frozen, treacherous, sex deprived heart fluttered at how deep and masculine it sounded.

I was dying on the floor, and instead of going through the ABCs of medical assessment 101, my brain decided to process the pitch and intonation of a stranger's voice.

Wow. That was a first. And why wasn't I mad at this stranger for yelling at me while I was down on the floor shivering like a helpless puppy? And did he not see the car that almost drove me over? Surely I didn't imagine the car.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I focused inwardly on what was happening to me. I was dying. I was certain. I always knew a Tuesday would be the end of me. I just didn't expect it to be this one.

I knew that I was breathing because my nose tingled from the cold every time I inhaled. I knew that my blood was circulating because my heart had furiously started pumping blood the second the stranger uttered his first words in that sexy voice. Or maybe it was the adrenaline doing that to me.

It honestly didn't matter though.

What mattered was that I didn't know whether the stranger's looks matched his voice and brash aura.

And I would only know the answer to that particular first-world problem by opening my eyes.

After my quick medical assessment, I concluded that I was conscious and responsive after having hit my head on the hard, wet floor.

Too bad, Mr. I-have-a-fucking-sexy-voice would not be performing CPR on yours truly today.

Well damn.

Tuesdays certainly did suck.

°°°

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❤️ Lady Altagracia