Chapter 18

I get up. I pad to the bathroom—in my stocking feet; the island is sunny and tropical and by ten the house is hot, but the cement floors feel like an ice rink. I take a piss. I stand in front of the mirror, give the swell of my new stomach an admiring pat, and wonder for the umpteenth day in a row if I’ll have enough of my severance left over to get my eyes touched up before I go back to the States. I’m a young forty-three—I ride my bike every weekend, most of my T-shirts are from Abercrombie, I’ve almost worked up the guts to get the tattoo sleeve I feel like I’m supposed to want—but the dude in the mirror sometimes looks like he just can’t wait to hit middle age. If I can do something about these bags, I’m hoping it’ll get him to pump the brakes at least a little bit. Sure, growing old gracefully is a great idea if you look like Mister Two-Forty from the bar last night. We onetime-twinks require some tending.