Well, this has been a weird week, no?

"So how long is it before it's too long without..." Tuesday's baritone began, but was interrupted by Wednesday, who said,
"What?"
"Without a change?" Tuesday finished, and reached forward to ash a chunk off his cigarette into a black plastic ashtray that sat on a large round table, surrounded by a red leather booth that held the assorted weekdays in a very dark bar.
"What kind of change?" Asked Monday, while Thursday and Friday worked to finish their coctails quickly enough to order before happy-hour was up.

"Like everything you've been in a rut over...I mean, how many times do you tell yourself you've got to change, before it's the time you actually do anything about it?"
"Seventeen!" Wednesday said.
"Thirty-Seven!" Monday chipped in.
"At least a hundred." Thursday spoke with a rasp from downing a lowball of scotch.

Friday leaned back and waved to the waitress who was obviously lurking in the background waiting for the move - the tavern they had chosen was dead except for two drunks leaning heavily on the bar about fifteen feet away. She walked up attired to get the maximum tip value from her 24 year-old body.
"It's not too late for another round before happy-hour ends?" Friday asked.
"Not for another 12 minutes." She said saucily.
"Then another round for us blokes." He said whirling his finger around in a circle. She moved off and Friday gave a gander at his assorted minions.

"A man can take what he's got to take...until he can't take it anymore." Friday spoke the words but began moving his head until he was speaking at a television mounted in the corner of the place, watching highlights of best sports plays of the day. "Then, when it's too much, he makes a change. I'd imagine it's the same for womenfolk, but I can't speak from experience on the last bit." He moved his thumb up to his mouth to bite at it's nail.

"So..." Wednesday began uncomfjortably, "how long is that, exactly?"
Friday watched a magnificent goal by the Panamanian National team with a crossing pass from the right wing, to a midfielder near the edge of the box, who made a tiny touch pass behind him to a midfielder, who lobbed a ball up for the forward who nailed a header back to the original passer who shot the ball well past the befuddled keeper, then turned back to the booth.

"Days, weeks, months, years...who the hell can say! The fates? Maybe it's not even up to them. One day you just wake up and decide enough's enough. People quit their jobs, they quit their relationships, they quit their dreams. Why? They just do. Nobody knows, except the person who's doing it. Why the hell are we talking about this?"

"I was just trying to make conversation." Tuesday said after a long pause. "Not trying to be confrontational. Jeesh." The body language of the gathered weekdays seemed to be in agreement with Tuesday's point rather than Friday's.

The waitress returned with a welcome distraction, setting down drinks leaning more than she should, her tank-top shirt hanging a tad loosely around her bust. She sauntered off well aware that her performance would gather at least a few looks at her other attractive assets, which it did.

"Sorry fellas," Friday said as he rolled a misty glass between his hands, "I've got a lot on my mind, and I'm afraid that question hits a little too close to home. Let's just enjoy this low-cost beverage, and prepare for a few more, at slightly exaggerated prices, and have a fucking nice night."

"Hear, hear!" Wednesday nearly shouted...and unlike most times when Wednesday does something like that, the other's raised their glasses and shook the bar with a resounding "HEAR HEAR!" The drunks at the bar even turned their heads to see what the commotion was.

Happy Friday!