Pantyliner and a running nose
I’m rummaging my bag for something to blow my nose with. Anything to blow my nose with. It’s so bad that when I find a pantyliner I contemplate for a moment to use it, I scan my fellow train riders. They appear to be into their Metro newspapers and I just need one opportunity to fish up the pantyliner. Then I get a brilliant idea. I tear it in two (as to disguise it into a more legitimate nose blowing item) and use the upper part of it (after all the string of it won’t lend the support my desperate, red, sniffling nose needs at this moment). That went well for most of it. No suspicion aroused seemingly.
I’m still tired from last nights thrashing and turning about in bed. I know my husband is tired too. My tirades and monologues about seeing a shrink for my obvious psychological problems (why else can’t I sleep!), going back on sleeping pills or alternatively go downstairs for a few shots of whiskey, has worn him out. I opted for the latter, which now has put me on the firm road of substance abuse.
Sleep is shallow as Sebastian wakes up a few times in the night. When I wake up at 8 my eyes are blood-shot. Reinout walks about like a zombie. He has an important meeting and presentation today. I feel guilt creeping on. I was after all the one that kept him awake.
15 minutes to the office. Did I tell you I long for a double espresso?
