I faced my mortality again last night—and this morning.
Riding home in a car at 1 PM, rivaling a few days ago when I thought seeing people on their way to work at 8 AM was bad enough—the streets are alive with women of leisure today. All long furs and sunglasses, elegance personified as they busy themselves with lunch dates and gossip.
The day’s a wash—that much is certain. I tumble out of the car when my driver stops, punch the door code and hurry upstairs, tripping on the landing as I go.
Perfect.
The blinds are still drawn, luckily—makes sense, since I left around dinner time. I brush my teeth and wash my face more vigorously than I should, and shiver as I disrobe to pull on my pajamas.
Flat on my back in bed, I feel my stomach roiling—I’m not sure why I chose to keep going, it just seemed like the thing to do.
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