The next day could hardly be described as “better”. The day after moving is never “better” than the day before, usually because you have to accept that life as you know it isn’t a nightmare after all, simply reality, though it is kind of the same thing. The best thing that could be said about the day was that it was an improvement in one way or the other.
Moya sneezed and settled back into her position of comfort. He tossed the book at her, and then turned to the bathroom to take a shower. “Apparently not.”
It occasionally ran through his eyes and made them burn furiously.
The next day could hardly be described as “better”. The day after moving is never “better” than the day before, usually because you have to accept that life as you know it isn’t a nightmare after all, simply reality, though it is kind of the same thing.
He rushed absentmindedly though his routine, brushing his teeth savagely but meticulously, (ridding himself of that horrid taste in his mouth one wakes up with when one has spent the night sleeping with one’s mouth open), and letting his mind drift effortlessly from one insignificant thing to another and taking no notice.
To find casual and comfortable clothes to wear for the day he had to rummage a little around his many collared shirts, ties, and slacks, but he finally shrugged on a snug long-sleeved maroon shirt and a pair of dark jeans that he hardly ever wore, plus a pair of underused canvas-rubber shoes, ones that Moya probably chewed on while he wasn’t looking.
He felt strange and out of place; [s]usually he was wearing a collared shirt and tie.[/s]
Juliet glanced around her, then leaned in closer, and said in a quieter voice, “A—er—word of advice from me: don’t listen to anything she says. Just nod and say, ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ in the right spots. Oui?”
He couldn’t help smiling. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad. At least she understood the awkwardness about landladies. “Thanks.”