I have done nothing but t00b the Internet all day, and sadly no one has spoken much. The holidays have pantsed everybody, I suspect, and I can wholly sympathize. I'm still lethargic and sluggish, and given the way I always feel in the immediate aftermath of the holidays, I wonder why anyone looks forward to them. Aside from the retailers, who stand to make money hand over fist, no one is happy. They're all too busy scrambling for presents and eating Tums by the fistful in a futile bid to stave off an incipient ulcer. Christmas 2006 can never be too far away.

On a cheerier note, I'm nearly done with September When It Comes V. At present, Greg is reflecting on how brutal even the gentlest of questioning can be when all defenses are down and battered. An excerpt:



"Now comes the hard part, Greg."

There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, as if an unseen intruder had dealt Greg a swift blow to the solar plexus, but that was all.

He's bracing himself. He knows how this works, this sordid rifling through the secret compartments of life that no other human being should have the right to peruse. I'm so sorry, Greg, he thought bleakly, and said, "Is there any possibility that she just decided to cut her los-left?" Never before had the measuring lines on the side of the coffee pot held such fascination for him.

Until that moment, Greg had always entertained the notion that preliminary questioning was a necessary imposition that could be borne gracefully, but sitting in the break room, shielded from the staggering brunt of the loss he now faced by the wall and the dingy upholstery of the couch, he knew it was not so, and the enormity of his naivete made him want to laugh and weep all at once.

Brass was treading as lightly as he dared for the sake of friendship, and still the question burned in the pores of his skin and the hard notch of his breastbone, a dagger he could not dislodge and that burrowed deeper with every shallow breath. It was graceless and impudent and galling, made all the worse because he understood the question beneath the polite façade.

Was she fucking around, Greggo? Hey, is there any possibility that while you were performing a valued civil service for Clark County and the grateful state of Nevada, your wife was swapping epithelials and biological contributions with the mailman or the cable guy or a man she met over the Internet when she was supposed to be editing a thesis for a bigshot professor at UNLV? These things happen all the time, you know. How many times have you seen it for yourself?
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