"Foo-oo-ood!" he says, tearing the heel of a loaf and tossing it my way. A
half-doz of my housemates, new arrivals whose names I haven't picked up yet, are
already sitting around the kitchen, stuffing their faces.
I reach into my robe-pocket for my comm and shout "Smile!" and snap a pict, then
stash it in the dir I'm using for working files for the e-zine.
"What's the caption?" said Tony.
"*Man oh manna*," I say.
I eat my heel of bread, then stump into the room that Daisy calls the Butler's
Pantry, that I use for my office and shut the door. Our e-zine, *Sit/Spin,* went
from occasional to daily when I took it over after New Year's, and I
commandeered an office to work in. Apparently, it's *de rigueur* cafe reading in
Copenhagen.
Whatever. The important things are:
1) I can spend a whole day in my office without once remembering to need to take
a pill;
2) When I come out, Daisy Duke is always the first one there, grabbing my comm
and eating the ish with hungry eyes.
I start to collect the day's issue, pasting in the pict of Tony and Daisy under
the masthead.
#
I'm on a Harbourfront patio with a pitcher of shandy in front of me, dark
shades, and a fabbed pin in my knee when the mothaship comes back.
I took the cure in February, slipped out and left a note so Daisy wouldn't
insist on being noble and coming with, lying about my name and camping out in
the ER for a week in the newly recaptured Women's College Hospital before a doc
could see me.
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