And so it goes. The beard is shaved off: unwillingly – I don’t recognize myself.
But that’s the rules.
The work clothes are washed; then rewashed (and hung outside in fresh air, for fear of contamination).
The body is soaped down; scrubbed. the hair, panthèned; conditioned.
Scent? A little. The rules say please do not.
But, just before leaving the house I find that I just do anyway; I can’t stop myself: a small spray, on each cuff, of Montale Sunset Flowers: that sheeny, bright lemon leaf, green apple violet wholesomeness I bought the other day on a strange anti-intuitive whim. For this precise purpose.
I iron my suit while staring out the window absently. Drinking coffee, willing myself into the spirit. A suit really shouldn’t be thrown into the washing machine in this way I realise but I am neurotic, aware of my smell at all times, and it…
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