Thursday, New Year’s Eve, day zero: An operetta of cooking and cocktails and ringing out and ringing in. Friday, day one: I wake up wincing. The dreaded post-NYE souvenir starts its walk around the inside of my skull. Achey shower, achey clothing, achey coffee, achey noon-hour breakfast — an achey toasted Engmuf clamped around an achey over-easy egg. We stretch our second-string bottle of champagne out into a leisurely parade of dilute mimosas, letting the tiny bubbles and OJ pulp battle it out in chintzy crystal flutes. We watch the afternoon snow. We watch an afternoon movie. Most of the day the clouded-over sky is a low-wattage off-white, the sun a dim floating disc that you can stare right at. Having a Friday off as a pure recovery day is a great big puff pastry. I read books and study the views out the windows and avoid work and work-thoughts. I keep pace with the pounding, power-walking upstairs ache and pretend I have been cleansed of concerns. The hours creep, we forget the time, we construct breathtaking sandwiches and stay up very late.

Saturday, day two: Bright. Sunday, day three: Dark.