I think it’s Thursday. I mean, it seems very much like a Thursday. Everyone else is going around saying its Thursday, all the calendars say “Thursday” — my cell phone even declares it a Thursday. The week has disappeared around me. Maybe I hit the edge of a black timehole while I skidded across the surface of the everyday. Maybe I lost the other days on the beach with Oriana on Labor Day (two hours felt like a week of sun-addled daydreams) or maybe I lost the other days in the boxes, the endless unpacking — or maybe I lost them like I lost my cell phone yesterday, in the back of a drawer (I had to borrow my new upstairs neighbor’s cell phone so I could find it)… Maybe Gandhi stole those days. Kevin rented the movie of his life. He was pretty badass. I bet some fragment of my consciousness is still holding on to India and became unable to register the passing of time, being distracted with India and all. Maybe I’m eating those days right now, in this bowl of veggie chili at the townie coffee shop down the street, where two aging hippies are taking about ward politics, an elderly Chinese man is shaking out his umbrella, and a business man is saying, “How long is a piece of string?” How long is a day? How long is a piece of string?