Charles went to the bathroom and began his morning routine. The shower wasn’t too difficult, but he had yet to master the art of flossing. And targeting a squeeze of toothpaste from the tube onto a toothbrush balanced precariously on the edge of the sink was damn near impossible.
He looked in the mirror. Cassandra’s culinary skills had done little to improve his appetite, and his weight hovered around 175 pounds. His six-foot-three frame was gaunt, and his face sallow. He’d lost muscle mass and wondered how much his right arm had weighed.
On good days the black eye-patch seemed rather natty; on bad ones he feared it brought attention to his disfigurement. Not pleased with the reconstructive plastic surgery on his cheekbone, he grew a beard. At least he didn’t have to learn how to shave left-handed.
It took him an hour to dress. His one-handed tactile skills were not yet sufficiently developed for him to button the heavily-starched oxford cloth shirt collars, but he rather awkwardly managed to pull a polo shirt and cotton sweater over his head.
Buttoning his chino trousers proved too much of a challenge so Charles substituted dress slacks with a metal clasp. He put on his socks with one hand, but it was a pain in the ass. Loafers didn’t require an attempt at the impossible…one-handed shoelace tying.
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