（外文电子版资料）ss - The Body Politic 5.0.pdf

The Body Politic Whenever he woke, Charlie George’s hands stood still. Perhaps he would be feeling too hot under the blankets and have to throw a couple over to Ellen’s side of the bed. Perhaps he might even get up, still half-asleep, and pad through to the kitchen to pour himself a tumbler of iced apple juice. Then back to bed, slipping in beside Ellen’s gentle crescent, to let sleep drift over him. They’d wait then, until his eyes had flickered closed and his breathing regular as clockwork, and they were certain he was sound asleep. Only then, when they knew consciousness was gone, would they dare to begin their secret lives again. For months now Charlie had been waking up with an uncomfortable ache in his wrists and hands. “Go and see a doctor,” Ellen would tell him, unsympathetic as ever. “Why won’t you go and see a doctor?” He hated doctors, that was why. Who in their right minds would trust someone who made a profession out of poking around in sick people? “I’ve probably been working to hard,” he told himself. “Some chance,” Ellen muttered. Surely that was the likeliest explanation. He was a packager by trade; he worked with his hands all day long. They got tired. It was only natural. “Stop fretting, Charlie,” he told his reflection one morning as he slapped some life into his face, “your hands are fit for anything.” So, night after night, the routine was the same. It goes like this: The Georges are asleep, side by side in their marital bed. He on his back, snoring gently; she curled up on his left-hand side. Charlie’s head is propped up on two thick pillows. His jaw is slightly ajar, and beneath the vein-shot veil of his lids his eyes scan some dreamed adventure. Maybe a fire fighter tonight, perhaps a heroic dash into the heart of some burning brothel. He dreams contentedly,