(March 1st)
In bonds of twisted sheets, the morning's begun with an intent to vanish. It's 10.30 a.m., the alarm must again have gone off unheard, unnoticed. A rare free Sunday, and I filled it to the throat with commitments, like a force-fed goose for foie gras. I need an expeditious take-off to be in town for brunch by noon. A shower, a little concealer, mascara and lipstick, no coffee.
There is a waiting list. At least an hour for a table of three. Fine, we can wait outside. It's a clear day, polished blue skies, but at about one and a half hours, amidst a conversation over meals and clothing, I find myself thinking about my feet, they are numb, it feels like I have no shoes on.
I have my first bite since yesterday at 2 p.m. It's been about eighteen hours. A stack of pancakes, decent flapjacks, melts under my fork and knife. I also order a bowl of fruit, and coffee, first an espresso, then a filter.
(March 8th)
The alarm goes off at 3 a.m. My naked arm reaches under the pillow to mute it. It's a wonder I hear it through the thick, sticky sleep. I lie still for a while. Do I even breathe?
I peel an orange before stepping out through the doorway, its fragrant skin lands in the sink in one twisted ribbon. I'll quickly eat it under the yellow light of the elevator.
The city is dark, unconscious, the night air soft, pure. The smell of orange lingers on my breath.
After work I stop by the chocolate store to get more François Pralus. On my way home I pick up roasted chicken and a bottle of Portuguese red. It's International Women's Day, and I feel like a carnivore.
The familiar orange skin is still in the sink.
(March 16th)
It's conventionally early when I wake up, not yet eight. I wish I could sleep in, but my throat's been scoured by sandpaper overnight, or it feels like it was. Raw, swollen, under siege. The bed offers no solace, so I get up and make myself a pot of coffee. Caffeine will kill the pain.
(March 20th)
Bound by sweat-soaked sheets I stay in bed all day. I imagine if somebody ever pierces my ear with a knitting needle it will feel exactly like this: throbbing, high-voltage pain, minus blood gushing out. This is one bitch of a bug.
I order in Chinese. I'm mostly after a chicken soup, but get a dish of chicken and stir-fry vegetables in piquant red-pepper sauce in addition. I can do with more heat, so stir in a spoonful, and then one more, of sambal oelek.
(March 29th)
An icy beginning for daylight savings. Rain is relentless, wet snow hasn't stayed out of it either. The hair smells of last night, cigarettes, perfume, and tipsy laughter. When I wake up it's already 14.30 p.m.
I'm taking slow breaths
In bonds of twisted sheets, the morning's begun with an intent to vanish. It's 10.30 a.m., the alarm must again have gone off unheard, unnoticed. A rare free Sunday, and I filled it to the throat with commitments, like a force-fed goose for foie gras. I need an expeditious take-off to be in town for brunch by noon. A shower, a little concealer, mascara and lipstick, no coffee.
There is a waiting list. At least an hour for a table of three. Fine, we can wait outside. It's a clear day, polished blue skies, but at about one and a half hours, amidst a conversation over meals and clothing, I find myself thinking about my feet, they are numb, it feels like I have no shoes on.
(March 8th)
The alarm goes off at 3 a.m. My naked arm reaches under the pillow to mute it. It's a wonder I hear it through the thick, sticky sleep. I lie still for a while. Do I even breathe?
I peel an orange before stepping out through the doorway, its fragrant skin lands in the sink in one twisted ribbon. I'll quickly eat it under the yellow light of the elevator.
The city is dark, unconscious, the night air soft, pure. The smell of orange lingers on my breath.
After work I stop by the chocolate store to get more François Pralus. On my way home I pick up roasted chicken and a bottle of Portuguese red. It's International Women's Day, and I feel like a carnivore.
The familiar orange skin is still in the sink.
(March 16th)
It's conventionally early when I wake up, not yet eight. I wish I could sleep in, but my throat's been scoured by sandpaper overnight, or it feels like it was. Raw, swollen, under siege. The bed offers no solace, so I get up and make myself a pot of coffee. Caffeine will kill the pain.
Bound by sweat-soaked sheets I stay in bed all day. I imagine if somebody ever pierces my ear with a knitting needle it will feel exactly like this: throbbing, high-voltage pain, minus blood gushing out. This is one bitch of a bug.
I order in Chinese. I'm mostly after a chicken soup, but get a dish of chicken and stir-fry vegetables in piquant red-pepper sauce in addition. I can do with more heat, so stir in a spoonful, and then one more, of sambal oelek.
(March 29th)
An icy beginning for daylight savings. Rain is relentless, wet snow hasn't stayed out of it either. The hair smells of last night, cigarettes, perfume, and tipsy laughter. When I wake up it's already 14.30 p.m.
I'm taking slow breaths
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