“I’m just. . . tired.”
Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.
What if we just never went back to that job ever again?
“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.
That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.
But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.
Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?
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