When it's that kind of day,
I usually start whistling about half
a mile away. My friend never notices it,
even as I approach and the tune grows
louder. On those days he's always
preoccupied. And, of course, he's always
alone when I reach him,
because no one's ever
afraid. Not on that kind of day.

I always surprise my
friend. Today I surprise him in
a special way. I make him turn
around, which, on that kind of
day, is quite definitely
not the right thing to do. I'm
behind him now, of course, and
my other friend loops right round
his neck. Surprise!

He doesn't have the strength to
struggle, mentally or physically.
He knows it's his time, because he's
my friend on that kind of day--a
fair-weather friend, perhaps, but
a friend indeed. My cord does all
the work for him; all he has to
do is wait, because he's my
friend, my not now strong friend.

He takes a last nonbreath and
expires; friend number thirty-
one--this has been a very good
month, because every day's been
that kind of day. I retrieve
my cord, leave my card--ha!, my
number has a 555 prefix, of
course--and disappear from the
year's last august August scene.

It's that kind of day. I pluck a
rose and wander down the street,
down to the ice cream shop, whistling
a different tune. I order a scoop
of double fudge chocolate chocolate
chip from the girl there, a new girl.
There's a cup on the counter for tips;
I tip her the rose, and she smiles,
because it's that kind of day.