+TYPED OUT-

+WISHES-

In another time zone, Monday popped her clothes in the machine. It was 3 PM in France, Luce was at work, and she was back to her pajama life. She had spent the morning washing and detangling her hair which now sat in neat Bantu knots. Wash day made the woman regret her dreads. Having natural hair was hard work. She couldn't be bothered to seek cute hairstyles. She had already asked Luce if she could braid her hair on her next day off.

The house was tidy, and her clothes span. She could finally sit down to write.

Monday wanted to write a story that made her step out of her comfort zone, but all her attempts failed. What worked well and what the readers wanted was her one plus one encounters with or without love triangle or square. She already had her male protagonist, but she didn't know what to do with him. Perhaps she should scrap him. Not all characters imagined ended up in her chapters. Some remained in her minds' drawers like spares. Sometimes they became the main characters elsewhere.

The page was blank, the story was there somewhere, but Monday could not piece it together. A weak plot meant she would sink in the marathon in the middle. A complex scenario meant research. Monday spent at least sixty good percent of her time studying professions, locations, culture, religion, etc.

When one wished for the reader to imagine certain situations, writers had to provide tangible elements. Monday loved making readers discover new languages, dishes, lifestyles. She made the multicultural aspect of her stories a must-have. She loved contemporary stories with a close-to-home where readers felt the character was just like them.

Monday tapped her fingers on her desk, took a phone, and ordered a Crème brûlee Deerioca bubble tea from The Alley on UberEats. She was about to put her phone down when it buzzed with an incoming message from Ben:

Hi, I hope you got home well.

Kenneth left something for you.

I'll bring it to the office with me on Monday.

Enjoy your weekend!

The woman blinked, wiped her eyes, and reread. Kenneth left something for her.

Why would he do a thing like that?

Monday found herself wondering what it was; she assumed it wasn't that important; otherwise, Ben would have called first thing in the morning. She found herself tempted to send back: What is it?

But knowing Ben, she would have to wait for Monday anyway. He was the type of person who thrived on live reactions.

The day passed, and Monday tried to occupy her thoughts, but Kenneth accompanied them like a side dish.

What did he leave?

What could the man leave for her?

Did she forget something in his room?

Yes, her soul.

The woman was six feet under a ton of questions.Sunday was absolute torture. 

Her mind throbbed and combusted. Monday even thought of driving to Ben's to get whatever Kenneth left, only to realize she didn't know where the man lived.

Monday loved people, but she hated trouble. Though close, they kept out of each other's private life. The more friends one had, the more they multiplied the chances of fallout and disappointment.

Besides her cousin Luce, Monday didn't see people other than the writers working with her publisher.

Mondays' publisher was English with a French hub in Paris. She was one of the rare writers to navigate between the two offices.

Many didn't comprehend why the woman didn't write in French. Even when she explained her stories touched a wider audience and that French in books were complicated, people still frowned upon her choice.

The woman had another reason; the French literacy world was an elitist book club that let in members once a century. Editors scrapped manuscripts after five grammar mistakes, often forgetting part of their job consisted in accompanying the writer and editing with them.

On the other hand, English bestsellers found themselves welcomed with open arms, and Monday found translated versions of her books in French books stores.

While none would have finished the first chapter of her submission, they now wished to add her books to their catalog.

"Dayé, will you come to church with me?" Luce asked as she did every Sunday, even if she knew what the answer would be.

"Nah, I've got things to do."

Whoop, there it was, Mondays' permanent excuse.

"What things? You are just sitting there procrastinating. Come and hear the word of God. It will do you some good."

Some would say Luce heard the calling, but Monday believed Luces' sudden leap of faith was more due to pastor Lennoxs' smile than Gods' words. Nevertheless, Luce was diligent and punctual at the mess.

"Come on, Dayé," Luce urged.

Monday sighed and got up; she preferred Gods' lecture than having Luce nagging after her.

 Pastor Lennox was young, and so was most of his congregation, who came to listen to a pretty modern pastor who understood the trials, tribulations, and temptations around younger generations.

People needed guidance more than ever in the ever-connected world. Some like Kenneth made a profit out of people's despair, while others like the pastor gave without awaiting compensation, knowing theirs would be in front of heaven's gate.

Monday and Luce left. The church was a ten minutes walk away. The pastor stood on the church steps to welcome them.

"Good morning Luce, Monday."

Good morning pastor. Monday replied

Jacob knew every person who came, even those he saw once a year, like Monday. The woman reminded him of his sister, Sierra. She, too, had difficulty distilling God's plan for her. The woman faced the worse before triumphing.

The times were difficult, especially for women constantly confronted by societys' critical eye and having to justify themselves.

Jacob couldn't help but wonder how beautiful women such as Luce could find themselves on the waiting list for love.

The man knew her age, and it wasn't rare to hear the senior in church gossiping about how time slipped for her and that if she wasn't married by age forty, the game was over.

"Breathe, Luce, breathe," Monday whispered.

Her cousin lost her means in front of the pastor, and Monday understood why. As far as black men went beauty-wise, the pastor sat on a pedestal with his baby skin, dimples, and lean athletic physique. His smile and genuine kindness added sugar to the already perfect blend of the man without forgetting the whipped cream off his God-fearing persona.

"Good morning, pastor," Luce finally returned. The man's smile of acknowledgment almost knocked the woman down.

Luce spent the service looking anywhere else than at the man.

The situation got the author in Monday, imagining the premise of a story she wished would come true.