Tuesday is tomorrow

We were sitting on a street café, one of those with all the proper features but all the wrong ambition. Time and again an espresso machine roared in the background, like a dying beast, bleeding black. The facts of life were summarized in cigarette smoke. We talked about why people so rarely turn around. You bought a glass of scotch, despite it being a week day. Then you said Tuesday afternoon light makes my skin look like fragile canvas. I remember laughing, then growing silent as my eyes caught a glimpse of someone to whom only his face remained. Too bad I thought, he used to have a name as well. Now no more than rough pastel lines. I used to know him. Till he changed. I can't recall your reason for being silent though.