Monday. There had been songs written about Monday. It was his least favourite day. It meant work. It meant participating in the world and interacting with people he’d rather not interact with. It meant a grey cloud hovering over him for the next eight hours.
His Monday mood did not lift until five o’clock that evening when his foot touched the pavement outside the small printing shop where he worked. The closer he got to home, the higher his spirits became. Only as his hand slid the key into his front door did all the stress and tension of the day drain away. He could almost smile.
“Heya! How was your day?”
The voice was bright and bubbly, and belonged to Claire, the nineteen-year-old, brown-haired girl who lived in the small bungalow opposite his. She studied art and philosophy and was
