Saturday Is the Loneliest Day of the Week

The only good thing about weekend is that I don’t have to work. That’s it. If I don’t have to work, then I don’t have to get up at 6 (or earlier) to avoid the crazy traffic. If I don’t have to get stuck in rush hour traffic, usually I’ll have a better mood all day long. If I have a better mood then I’ll forget my suicidal thoughts. But that’s it. That’s all goodness a weekend has.

But the whole picture of it lately is a torture.

Starting when I wake up from sleep and roll over on my colder side of the bed, he’s not there snoring or passing his hell of early morning gas. Not even a bulge of his morning erection pushing through our shared blanket. When I walk to the bathroom to pee, no sleepy voice asking where I am going or what the time that particular moment is, sometimes using his mother tongue. (He’s still very much under beta waves influence that he forgot he was talking to someone having no idea what he was talking about!)

Then when I come down to the kitchen and fix myself a coffee, it’s gonna be me, myself, and I drinking it alone without having to see him tear off a sachet of brown sugar. Nobody calls me ‘sugar bitch’ anymore when I keep adding sugar in my stubbornly bitter, strong, black coffee.

When I go to the living room to check out the world outside through the living room’s window, I see his shadow sitting on one of the couches talking to father and eating noodle soup. I still feel like seeing him demonstrating to mother how devoted pilgrims pray at a miracle place in Fatima, Portugal.

Then a text alert sound from my cell phone distracts my silent memory. It’s one of my friends asking me to go out. I quickly reply a yes, for I still don’t have anything marked on my weekend agenda. After sending out the text, my fingers usually can’t resist the temptation of not scrolling down to see some of the texts he ever sent. Even seeing his name still written there never fails to make my heart jump up to my throat. Let alone reading his: “I guess I’m sleepless when thinking about you. XXX”

Then I try to read the morning paper. It’s less fun because I don’t have him to fight over who’s to read the English newspaper first. For that reason, I don’t even have any interest in touching the English and Bahasa newspapers lying on a coffee table. And besides, nobody reads me the business section from the English newspaper anymore, as in return, I then would read him the latest political news from Bahasa newspaper. Since I walked out of his life, my mornings are without discussions on the best ways to reduce traffic jams in Jakarta or arguments about normal delivery over caesarian operation.

Bored with the newspaper, when I turn on the TV, it’s also less fun because now I have the remote control for myself. Nobody insists on watching CNN when I want to see E! Channel.

When I drag my lazy ass to get some refreshing shower before meeting my friend, there’s no longer him in front of the basin sink with a face covered with shaving cream while letting the tap on. Now I don’t have to yell at him from the shower: “Preserve the water, Hon! Water is scarce. If you want our grandchildren to still have the luxury of drinking clean, plain water, close the goddamn tap!”. And of course, there’s no longer a voice replying with half closed lips (to avoid from swallowing the shaving cream): “I need to keep the goddamn tap on to shave properly! You're a woman, what do you know about shaving?”

After shower, when I’m confused if I have to wear a red, silk top or a white, cotton top, he’s not around for me to ask his opinion.

When I’m finally all set to go out in a green, cotton-polyester top, starting the engine of the car and the radio automatically on, there's Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones singing Paint It Black. He worships the Rolling Stones like the Hindu worship Shiva or Carrie Bradshaw worships Manolo Blahnik.

Driving down the typical busy streets on Saturday afternoon, I don't know why each minute I see 1992 Mercedes Benz. When I see it in a particular blue color, my heart skips a beat.

A few traffic lights and jams later, I arrive at the place I should meet my friend. Since almost all Jakartans are in that particular place, he or she suddenly calls telling me that the restaurant we should have lunch at is full, so he or she has found a table at a Japanese restaurant on so and so floor. When I come to that restaurant, my hungry friend is already eating a tuna sashimi for a starter. My heart twiches knowing it's one of his all time favorite food. Nobody I can argue with anymore over which among tuna and salmon is more expensive during eating those thin, orange slices. And after meal I still can’t stop the contagious European habit of having a cup of coffee to wash out the food taste lingering in my mouth.

Then the dusk finally comes down, another friend calls to meet up at another place to have a drink. Not only I gasp for air when seeing him/her already waiting for me with a bottle of Bintang, but also when I enter the lounge, the background music being played is Santana’s Corazon Espinado – his favorite requested song whenever we went to places with live music. And when I take a glance to a bunch of gentlemen at the next table, I let out a big sigh because those guys are smoking red Marlboro cigarettes. The strong smell of the smoke is so familiar that it goes right to my head and straight to the folds of my memory.

A few cocktails and good conversations later, I go home. When I switch on the TV, as if not enough of torturing me all day, there’s an InterContinental Bali Resort advertisement on Star World. My hands are trembling but too helpless to change the channel. When seeing the beautiful resort’s sunset bar, the beach, the swimming pool, the club room, the garden, I simply lose breath. Once upon a time, we had the time of our lives at the very same place I see before my eyes on TV screen.

That's why every weekend I cross my fingers hoping it would soon be Monday.