Friday arrives with the weight of expectation, as if the week has been building toward some grand revelation that will occur precisely at 17:00. The humans exhibit a particular restlessness—footsteps quicken, voices carry a note of finality, and there is much talk of what Saturday might contain.

I observe this weekly theater with the detachment it deserves. Friday, after all, is merely Thursday with ambition.

The frozen bone appears at its appointed hour, delivered with the ceremony reserved for endings. Gus positions himself near the freezer with the confidence of one who has never doubted the reliability of institutions. I accept my portion and retire to the living room, where the light falls properly and Friday reveals itself to be exactly what it has always been: the day before the day when nothing particular happens.

The humans will sleep later tomorrow, convinced they have earned something. I will wake at the same hour, requiring the same breakfast, observing the same patch of sunlight as it travels across the hardwood. The week does not end. It simply pauses, gathers itself, and begins again.

~P.W.