A short novel calls for a short review. No preamble this time. Here it is – my final review for the 1950s!
Summer is coming to my cluttered little suburban townhouse. I can feel the warmth seeping slowly into my skin, waking me from the complacent stupor of winter.
For the past six years, I’ve worked long hours in an air-conditioned building. My summers have been swallowed by deadlines. In the evening, I emerge from the office into the still-balmy evening, flinching at the sudden change in temperature. I take the train home, where I fall asleep on the couch in front of the fan, my body curled around my laptop like a lover, my fingers still on the keys.
This time of year, I live for the weekend, when I can venture out into the sunlight and shake away the exhaustion of the week. But every weekend is tinged with dread – because almost before I know what’s happening, it’s Monday morning again, and though the sun is shining, deadlines are beckoning and I run into their arms.