The Weekend

From Friday evening to Monday morning I traverse the barren desert. Long empty hours burn and blister. There are no laughing children. There are no jolly friends. There is the market, movies, the embassy, mirages of distraction. I go to the pool where strangers sun bathe, silently, on adjacent lounge chairs. I go to the basketball court where the echo of the bouncing ball finds eternity uninterrupted by quarreling children. I run the treadmill. And run. And run. Across the wasteland I run, never progressing, only running. I go to my bedroom and discover that the Internet is empty, a wide portal to nothing and nowhere. It makes no early morning demands. It has no accidents that must be cleaned up. It doesn't fight, hit, kick, or scream. What good is a friend that does not exasperate? It is no friend at all.