Morning glory

I KNOW WHEN HORTENSE is about to be snide. The slightly arched eyebrow, the slow smile with gently hitched ends, the contrived sweetness in her voice. “You never write about breakfast,” she says. She knows I always come to work without eating a meal most of my fellow labourers deem sacred.

“Is that an offer,” I respond in a voice as sweet as hers, “to share yours with me?” She retreats huffily, leaving me to get