He stands at the sink and holds a washcloth under the running faucet. Be quick, he thinks. Back to the couch before everything goes black.
A long, vacant stare into the bathroom mirror. His sweaty, pale mug returns the gaze.
When was the last time he was this sick? The last time he had to suffer through it alone?
He presses the cold cloth to the back of his neck.
It’s better this way, he convinces himself. Better to focus on himself first.
He’ll need good people in his life somewhere down the road. This, he knows.
Just not today.
The Weekday One Hundred 