I look like hell.
There’s no denying it.
The mirror reflects tired gray eyes and bone-deep weariness. The last few days, there’s been a gritty feeling I can’t quite blink away. Shadows below tell the tale of long days and nights chained to the desk. The bathroom light is stark and unforgiving, and my weary face stares back at me, joyless. Shaking my head, I pick up the razor. I don’t have all day to brood.
Carefully maneuvering the sharp blades along my jawline, it deftly cuts through yesterday’s growth. Every individual hair cut to skin level, the precision of these German-made blades is ruthless. I admire an instrument that carries out its job to perfection.
The parallel of this razor with my life isn’t lost on me. So much of my time is spent deployed by others to gracefully deliver the death blow and cut my opponents off at the knees. My battlefield is the courtroom, and there’s no break from the relentless pressure and the switch from being on the attack to being on the defensive in the blink of an eye.
It’s stress and argument and persuasion.
Toweling off the last of the lather from my face, I try a grin on for size, really giving it a good hard go. I get halfway before I admit defeat. My shoulders slump. How is it that I can muster up so little inner joy? The face in the reflection falls back into neutral, the emotionless mask that comes so easily these days.
Determined not to dwell, I roll my shoulders, stand tall, and run my hands through my hair with some product to keep it in place. Feeling a twinge in my bicep, I remind myself to slow down on the arm work at the gym. I’ve been training too hard, punishing the punching bag.
Despite my sun-deprived face, I do keep myself in fighting shape. Not that anyone sees me in the buff. God knows, it’s been embarrassingly long since my sex life was anything to boast about.
For years now, it’s been work, work, work—all my attention has been on my career. For me, work is more than just a job. It’s a calling, and for the longest time, it has been everything. My work is important, not only to me but for its wide-reaching impact, and I feel the weight of responsibility that goes along with it. I mentally note to get outside for some fresh air today and maybe speak to someone about something other than one of my cases.
The problem is, I have no idea where I’d even find someone to speak to about something normal. I have a close group of friends, but the four of us are all separated right now, and our jobs have taken us in strange directions. All of us working our asses off with no time for anything else.
And where the hell do you think you’re ever going to find a girlfriend? I groan, tightening the towel around my hips and turning to leave the bathroom. Somehow, I’ve ended up in a routine that has me a slave to the office, and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I looked at a woman and felt even a stir of interest.
Fuck, I need to get out more.