Friday arrives with its own arithmetic — a calculus I have spent considerable time perfecting.
At 07:17, the light through the family room glass carries a different quality than Thursday’s light. Sharper. More deliberate. The ponderosas outside catch it and throw it back transformed, and I find myself positioned precisely where this transformation lands on the hardwood. This is not accident.
Gus remains in his donut bed, apparently unaware that today operates under different rules. His breathing suggests deep sleep, but I have learned not to trust his breathing. He has a talent for appearing unconscious while maintaining complete awareness of kitchen activity. Still, his commitment to the performance is admirable.
The freezer door has not opened since Sunday. Five days of accumulating possibility. The femur bones rest in their frozen state, unaware they are approaching their destiny. Dad moves through his morning routine — coffee, desk, the familiar rhythm of productivity — but there is knowledge between us. He knows I know. I know he knows I know.
The water shooting from the ground downtown yesterday carried the unmistakable message of seasonal change. Winter’s grip loosens by degrees, and with it comes the return of longer walks, more frequent trips to Hollinshead, the prospect of afternoons on the front porch. But these are distant pleasures. Today’s pleasure has a more immediate arithmetic.
I have positioned myself with strategic precision. Not in the studio, where my presence might be interpreted as a request for the morning cookie. Not at the kitchen threshold, where my attention might seem focused on breakfast. Instead, I have claimed the intersection between the family room and the hallway — the exact coordinates that allow observation of both the freezer and the clock above it.
The mathematics are elegant. Evening approaches. Friday’s special cargo waits. The equation balances itself.
Gus stretches in his bed, a performance of awakening that fools no one. His internal clock rivals my own, though he prefers to let me handle the advance work. Why should he concern himself with positioning and timing when I have already done the calculations?
At 3°C, the bones will emerge from their frozen state with particular density. The marrow will require more work, which extends the pleasure. The cold creates resistance, and resistance creates satisfaction. These are not variables I discovered yesterday.
Dad glances in my direction. I maintain perfect stillness, as if my location were entirely coincidental. As if I regularly spend Friday mornings contemplating the precise angle of morning light through glass. His expression suggests he appreciates the subtlety of my approach.
The day unfolds according to its own logic, but some logic requires gentle encouragement. I am prepared to provide exactly as much encouragement as the situation demands.
No more. No less.
~P.W.