There ought to be a law against a workday landing between Christmas and the weekend. I knew what waited for me. The half-awake feeling of the day after a holiday at the newspaper office. Everyone straggling in, fighting the don’t-I-get-a-holiday-too pokiness of the computers. The computers at our office made me believe in animism—inorganic objects having sentience. For instance, in college, my adviser celebrated the first snowfall of the season throwing snowballs at the window of the Humanities dean … until one snowball broke it. When we had a freeze two days later, the only pipes on the entire Willis-Brooks College campus that froze and broke were in his office. Animism.
My brain
still churned over our breakfast conference, the poisoned dart in my neck, and the
adrenaline rush of having had my life threatened. I could have claimed some
invalid status, either physical or emotional. But no, I had responsibility
branded into my genetic structure by my parents. Which was weird, considering
what hippies they were.
So with
heavy heart and slushy gloves, I pushed my chair through the sludge filling the
parking lot and up the ramp to the office door. And nearly got brained by the
door when Daniel pushed it open just as I was reaching for the handle.
Yes, I had finally gotten into the habit of calling him Daniel instead of the Evil Overlord. Honestly, how could I hate a fellow Trekker who was a not-so-secret-anymore fan of my comedy?
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