Mornings have never been my thing, and with Marion's departure I find it hard enough to get to sleep at night, let alone climb out of bed in the morning. You know how it feels when you try to sleep in, only to discover that once you've prodded yourself out of bed, you can't really get moving? That's how it is with divorce. The more time I pretend to sleep, the less I'm required to be awake--which is a good thing, especially because, all too often, there doesn't seem to be much of anything worth doing when I'm awake. Which is a separate problem, but I'll get to that in a moment.

Even though they must have been nearing expiration, the 'Drops firmed up into contact lenses just fine. But I was slow to realize they were the wrong lenses. Halfway downstairs, I started getting that stepping-off-a-curb feeling that comes when your eyes insist your legs are three inches too short.

In the kitchen, the AutoPot was perking, so I thought I'd wake myself a bit before dealing with the eyes. Bad idea. My arms didn't feel any closer to the right length than my legs, and I wound up spilling the pot's contents all over the counter in an overshoot/undershoot effort to hit the mug. It might have been comical if all that hot coffee hadn't trickled down and caught me where it really hurts.

There's one good thing about pain: it wakes you up even better than caffeine. I yelled, cursed, and with remarkable accuracy for a man whose depth perception wasn't working, turned and threw the mug through the vidscreen, where a perky newscaster with a voice too similar to Marion's was reciting today's pinpoint forecast. "On the West Side, the waterfront will see brief showers at 9:15, 11:20, and 12:45--" she managed to say before my lucky shot found its mark, terminating not only her broadcast, but my favorite mug and a bunch of electronics I could ill afford to replace.

"Damn you, Marion!" I roared into the silence. "Why didn't you take those stupid 'Drops when you took everything else?"

Another problem with divorce is you think everything's a conspiracy. Professionally, I've dealt with enough divorces to know all about that, but for the moment I was sure Marion had left the 'Drops as a booby trap and was now sniggering at me for breaking the vid.

Meanwhile, my own 'Drops were in the medicine cabinet and my vision wasn't going to improve on its own. I stumbled upstairs and rummaged for a bottle of Erasure. Even the big print on the label was hard to read, but I was awake enough now to find the right bottle by shape, without compounding my problems by squirting something nasty into my eyes, like rubbing alcohol or sunscreen.

When I could see again, I located my own 'Drops--and chose the Baby Blues, whose bottle, I realized, was the same color as Marion's.

And suddenly I knew why she'd left it. A few years ago she'd gone on a togetherness binge and matched several of my eyeshades, with the idea it made us look more like a couple. I'd thought it silly, but that's the way I've always been about most of that "togetherness" stuff. She was a romantic; I'm strictly utilitarian. I've got a variety of eyeshades, but all for practical purposes. Today, I wanted the Baby Blues because the rent was due and I needed that frank, innocent gaze when I begged for Extension.

Sadly, the rent wasn't my only problem. If someday soon I didn't come up with enough to pay my lawyer's retainer, Marion would clean me out and the rent nano wouldn't be the only one to come home to roost in ways that might almost make me wish I'd just poured bleach in my eyes and gotten it over with.

Still, the rent was today's concern. A few minutes later my landlord proved it by intercepting me on my doorstep.

"Sorry, Trevor," I said, practicing my innocent gaze. I'd planned on calling him for an appointment later in the day, but I already know my spiel. "I'm expecting a nice fee, but it's been delayed. Can you give me a week's Extension?" Actually, I'd not seen a paying client in a fortnight, but a week was the most I could ask for with a straight face. In the back of my mind, I was trying to remember the terms of my lease. Landlord/tenant law requires the enforcement nano to be non-lethal and non-maiming, but that leaves a lot of room for unpleasantness. When I'd accepted it, I'd been more than marginally solvent. Marion was a computer tech whose career seemed immune to the forces that had ruined my own, and I hadn't paid much attention to the fine print. If I were lucky, I'd simply agreed to turn blue or have "deadbeat" appear on my forehead in neon tones. But I might have accepted a month of diarrhea, an ugly skin disease, narcolepsy, Tourette's syndrome, or any of a host of other legally permissible ailments that merely make you wish you could die. Too bad Trevor hadn't insisted that Marion accept the nano, too, because now she was the one with the money while I was the one stuck with the nano. It wasn't fair--but who's ever seen a divorce that was?

Trevor had chosen a stern, dark look: his bill-collector persona. Actually, he's a pussycat who's given me a lot of slack, but he has his own nanos to tend to, and property taxes were due sometime soon. Getting the government to give you Extension is damn near impossible.

"Blast it, Alex," he said. "You know I like you, but I need the rent. Preferably on time."

I shrugged. "Tell that to my client. I gave him Extension, but that means I need it from you." A total fabrication, but I was getting desperate. What had been in that rent nano?

Trevor was still trying for stern, but I could see the softness around the edges. "Come on," I wheedled. "Just a week."

"Twenty-four hours."

"Five days?"

"Three."

"Four?"

Sometimes, I push too hard. It was one of the things Marion complained about. "Three," Trevor said. "And count yourself lucky." He tapped a trio of triangular pills from a packet labeled RENT EXTENSIONS and slid them into a pill-sized envelope. It amazes me that he dispenses Extension this way, rather than just reprogramming the nanos with a code-locked scanner. Maybe he doesn't trust scanners, even though they're pretty much the same devices the bank uses when you log a payment. Or maybe he's just old-fashioned. After all, he's willing to visit tenants in person, rather than hiding behind a rental agency that would never give even a day's Extension.

Briefly I wondered how many pills were in his packet and what would happen if someone got really desperate. Then I decided it didn't matter because the number was finite and eventually the clock would run out. Still, I wouldn't flash something like that around when rents were due. Maybe it's just my profession that makes me cynical, but Trevor is too trusting.

I started to thank him, but he interrupted. "I mean it," he said. His normally open face clenched and I realized that even pussycats have limits. "Don't even think about trying to tell me you lost one. Three days, or you can just rot."

Not rot in hell. Rot. As in a literal threat. Had Trevor once talked rich, complacent me into some kind of flesh-eater? Perhaps because he knew he was a pussycat and needed a big gun to back up threats he didn't want to enforce? The worst of those were reserved for the IRS, but commercial ones could be pretty nasty--muscle atrophiers, rashes that deprived you of a month's sleep. Gads, the prospects were endless.