We’ve gotten our hands—yes, our hands—back on a Tuesday that went missing after breakfast.
The information is crumbling, coming out of the oven still warm, and we readily admit it borders on the implausible.
It all began when the market clock sneezed and the price tags jumped from Monday to Wednesday, skipping over logic the way you sidestep a puddle. Customers claim they paid for their vegetables with a receipt dated “soon.” Our special correspondent took notes; her watch had a fit of giggles, which is not recommended in the middle of rush hour.
According to the unofficial keeper of the days’ cloakroom, called in as reinforcements to fold time without creasing it, the situation is under control. “It’s a tired Tuesday, nothing more. We’re going to put it back between two coffees and serve it a short silence with a cloud of patience,” assures Mireille Détour, who swears she never speaks in metaphors when a calendar is listening.
Here we are at the exact moment when the article realizes it is an article: it stands up straight, inserts an imaginary subhead, then gives up. It knows it quotes paper witnesses, that it measures the incalculable and that it contracts seriousness the way one contracts a habit. To look professional, here’s a short sentence. And, for elegance, another one, which already refuses to end.
Conclusion, if you have lost a meeting, a nap, or a bon mot, please describe your Tuesday (hue, texture, any possible smell of rain). We will stitch it back onto your week before tomorrow’s edition—which will arrive right on time, even if time itself has decided to run slightly late out of sheer coquetry.
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