Mornings were never congenial, and this one was less encouraging than most. His head would not clear. When Helen had left the bathroom and joined the children downstairs, Joe walked in to meet his image and found it pale and puffy. He looked round-shouldered; there were wrinkles in his neck; even the hair on his chest seemed limp. The morning light was not helpful: the day was clear, but light lay flat and colorless on the white porcelain. And the normal acceleration of waking was retarded. Usually his mind closed with the first of the day’s problems as he brushed his teeth, but today his mind balked. Even the shower did not bring him to life; the shave was a chore; and when he combed his hair he saw that his eyes were bloodshot. He stood, without vitality in the wash of sterile light, and made a last attempt to bring his being into focus. Then he returned to his room, dressed slowly, and marched automatically to the kitchen. He sat among strangers. He ate eggs among familiar, acceptable, comfortable strangers.
