Saturday nights are sadistic. The hot chocolate I heat up over the open flame tastes bitter like black coffee. My drawers are torn apart as I hunt down a fine pair of jeans to wear and clean shirt to pull over my bony shoulders. The lights above my head create a fine layer of yellow light on the top of my head. The old teddy bears my mother baught me long ago sit just above my shaded window. The fur is a faded blue, but the memories are a vibrant yellow.
The yellow light, however, asks me to cover my face; a mask is needed for the night. I twist off the top of my nail polish and glide the brush over my nails: burgundy covers my nails. The blue hue to my black hair entices not only me but my best friend to hold me close and say words we would never say on any other night.
Saturday nights are not my friends. They hide in my closet and remind me that I’m so out of the social norm that I’ve made enemies out of them. I dance beneath moving lights of reds and greens with my girlfriends by my side, singing along to the “Macarena”. It’s a sight I’d perfer not to remember. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to.
My phone rings, but I don’t pick up because the music is too loud. I get home late on those Saturday nights- tired and empty. I turn the T.V, at times, to drown out my brain. I do it in class, even when he speaks to me. I shouldn’t be so crude, so cold, and oblivious. But, I feel nothing until he has completely forgotten me.
I hate Saturday nights, yet I love them because without them I wouldn’t know it feels like to be carried in arms that neither curse nor bless me. They’ve toughened me up; they’ve made me see that some nights are cold and empty, and the following mornings are warm and fuzzy like a kitten.
Thank you Saturday nights.