“Bring a cup of coffee,” urged the chair. “And that good book you are reading. There is plenty of time to pack some wine, some bread for your ride. For now stretch your legs. Breathe out.”

“I am about work!” Tuesday insisted. “I am for scrawling on paper. And click-clacking keyboards. Go to work! On Tuesdays we squint at screens and mutter about numbers.”

“The geese are scouting out nesting places by the river,” said the chair. “I think it will rain soon. Maybe tomorrow. Look at the sun shining now, though.”

“Selfish!” yelled Tuesday.

“I want to embrace you,” said the chair, holding out two sturdy arms.

“You will be unemployed!” screamed Tuesday. “You will be lazy and irresponsible and poor!”

“A slug of whiskey in your coffee would be nice,” said the chair. “Oooh. Feel how warm the sun is rising over these trees.”

“There is no time for this!” Tuesday agonized. “You will be late. You have deadlines. You are behind schedule, and falling short of expectations!”

“Tuesday sure likes exclamation points,” observed the blue chair to a passing breeze, and the branches sighed in agreement. With a gentle effort, the grass stretched, deepened its green. In grass-speak, this means: “Tuesday is loud.”

“Shut up!” commanded Tuesday, shoving my computer bag at me and slamming the car door. “You are a regular person. Regular people go to work! I am a regular day for regular people who work!”

Tuesday pushed my car all the way down the long driveway, grunting and huffing and scolding.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” called the blue chair softly, shrinking in my rear view. Sunlight winked through the back slats. “I’m here all week.”