Crash
an excerpt

Some things remain constant throughout human history. Monday morning is one of them.
Ever since somebody came up with the concept of the week and, more specifically, the weekend as a time of leisure, the start of a new working week has inspired equal parts dread and resignation in Man, gender notwithstanding.
To Jason all this might have been academic. But as it happens, his current project group holds its weekly progress meetings on – yes, Mondays. Bright and early enough to oblige him to travel during rush hour, too. Not that there's as much of that as there used to be, according to the dox he occasionally watches about life in the twentieth century – home work and flexi-hours have combined to see to that. And what there is tends to concentrate on the mass transit services rather than the roads. And he does actually have a car. Too bad that he's too much of a greenhouse-fearing boy to use it much.
Instead he stands squeezed into the tram carriage clutching the softbag containing his tablet, while to his left a fiftyish woman conducts a long, nasal conversation with whichever unfortunate is at the other end of her phone line, and somebody's elbow pokes him sharply from behind. He deliberately focuses on a water stain above the nearest window, traces its outline obsessively in his mind, attempting to blank out both sound and sensation. Attempting to make the trip bearable.
Next week, he tells himself. Next week I'll definitely take the car, and to hell with the icecaps.
Right. Didn't he tell himself that last week too?