that Friday

It was just a number, but the morning began with a headache that wouldn't quiet with coffee and persisted beyond noon.
"Take something," he said," Or go sleep it off."
It was a day devoid of black cats and ladders, no murderer with a chainsaw
masked in the closet, there were no storms, just a headache, like a watchmaker's tools tapping and twisting, tinkering with the mechanism.
Perhaps that's how bad luck began.
Two tablets in the palm and water, asleep all afternoon, waking unaware of the day.
The watch face crowded with a new number between twelve and one.