Les Zig

19.   Arriving at work the next day, I feel a disquiet. My workmates still chat the way they always do, but I pick up a glance here, a lowering of the voice there, a sense of expectation – when you’re somewhere long enough, you pick up the rhythm of the place, as well as any disruption, no matter how small. I might’ve been pre-armed with the script that this was going to happen, and I’d decided to bluster my way through it – or maybe that was the way I was told to play it. But I can’t now. Fuck the script. This is an affront, even if it…