March 10, 2004

“Girls smell sublime!” I thought as I untangled myself from Heather’s blanket in the morning. I awoke feeling warm and dreamy, and if it wasn’t for Alysia’s voice filling up the gaps between slumber and reality, I would have dozed until noon.

At 8 am the lounge was swarming with people, so I grabbed my belongings and my carton of milk and went into the board room. By the time the meeting ended the milk was gone, so I bought a cup of coffee and proceeded to spill it all over myself. It’s hard to run and drink coffee at the same time — the task requires a certain finesse that I utterly lack in the morning.

Coffee ruined, I ran to return Heather’s blanket. She was dressed all in white. “Thank you,” I whispered, and left her doorsteps grateful and invigorated.

And the rest of the day was a string of miracles, each one moving in its own way: the hairdresser gave me the toothbrush I desperately needed; Borrelli got a hair cut and looked happier than ever; someone gave me a condom; Dean Campbell wrote me an unintelligible note congratulating me; I hugged people; my questions were answered honestly; Corwin smiled.

The world trembled in rapture — suddenly, there was too much happiness. Heather’s blanket magically pieced my universe together.