Glasshouse
“I groan and try not to pull the bedclothes over my head. By one of those quirks of scheduling, yesterday was a workday for me, tomorrow is another, and I’m feeling hammered by the prospect of two eleven-hour days. I’m not looking forward to spending half my day off in forced proximity to score whores like Jen and Angel, but I manage to force myself out of bed and rescue my Sunday outfit from the pile growing on the chair at the end of the room. (I need to take a trip to the dry-cleaners soon, a...nd spend some time down in the basement washing the stuff I can do at home. More drudgery on my day off. Does it ever stop?)Downstairs, I find Sam laboriously spooning cornflakes into a bowl of milk. He looks preoccupied. My stomach is tight with anxiety, but I force myself to put a pan of water on the burner and carefully lower a couple of eggs into it. I need to make myself eat: My appetite isn’t good, and with the exercise regime I’m keeping up, I could start burning muscle tissue very easily.MoreLess
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