Outside the snow and rain still fall. The wind still howls. The cats yowl on the yard and mice scratch and scrabble in the walls. Water collects everywhere. It's warmer than a month ago, but there's still water lying about unsure of its state. Still the bets are that in less than a month it'll have made up its mind and there will be a flood, again.
Inside one daughter sits with her psychology book open, studying for a test. She's one day from finishing her second semester and first year of university. She'll go back tomorrow for a last day of classes, and then spend the week studying for finals. On the parapets of university dorms in the great Babylon to the south there are randy frat boys engaging in nefarious sexual acts with willing girls. It must be Spring.
Yet all he feels is the weight of his sinuses filling. There's ringing in his ears, and the mucousy rasp of his throat. He knows he's naval-gazing. He knows that it's unseemly to some. He knows that some want only high-minded cultural analysis anchored by mind-numbing plot twists - Dan Brown meets Jonathan Franzen, but he's only read one Dan Brown book, and Jonathan Franzen? He's yet to dip into that man's inkwell. This poor me schlock will have to do for now.
That's what he's left with then (what you're left with too). This stiff dose of the mundane, sprinkled with its bits of banal, and a vintage Piat D'or acting in the place of aperitif.
But the pay's good, he thinks. There's always that. And there's nothing like the bitter wannabe middle-class banter of the lunch crowd in the staff room. There'll probably be a poker game or two before the end of the school year, and likely a few memorable classroom moments to reassure him that the species has hope yet.
Still he pops those ginseng and echinacea cold fx tablets like a benny fiend, and washes them down with water and a belt of whisky to end the night.
No riding today folks. Recoup recoup recoup.
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