Thursday I was in the office by seven-fifteen.
Not because the work required it. Because the flat had been too quiet and my head had been too loud and movement was easier than lying still with the previous evening following me around.
I made coffee in the empty kitchen on the second floor. Arranged my desk. Opened four files. Worked through the Henderson variance from a different angle than the one Desmond had suggested, found the same answer, closed the file.
Seven forty-three. Still ninety minutes before anyone else arrived.
I opened another file.
The problem was not the work. The work was fine. The work was the one area of my life that had always been reliable structured, responsive, a place where effort produced outcomes and outcomes had names.
The problem was the spaces between
