I just came across this great description of the morning before a court appearance in Sally Rooney’s novel, Intermezzo, which I’ve been reading. True to life, except for the drugs.

In the morning, hiss of the iron, buttered bread roll, milligram of alprazolam, blue tie or green. Stands at the dining table rearranging his papers while the coffee cools, thoughts running rapid with broken phrases, details of argument, streams diverging and recrossing hands clammy touching the pages. The point of law. To raise the question of. His briefcase then, bitter aftertaste, overcoat, and outside the chill wind of October moves through the leaves of trees.

Sally Rooney, Intermezzo (New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2024), 67-68.

I won’t go on, because the lawyer goes on to think about the existential futility of what he does, and I don’t want to spoil the bit about the rush and the jumbled rehearsals that go through your mind when you are just on your way out the door.