Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb
like the sun; it shines everywhere
Wednesday, February 21
Two minutes in bed, waking up and listening to the war for the day. Stumble out of bed. Brush teeth waiting for the snatches of song in between the annoying chatter of the RJs. Jump into shower. Dry hair while trying to get into clothes. Think. Have to tell the boss about the fresh probe. The count seems low. Should she repeat it. And also have to place new orders for atleast two restriction enzymes. Annoying radio chatter. Tempted to turn it off. Hair refusing to stay in place. Dang it. Search frantically for clips, pins, bands, anything that'll help. Not satisfied but good enough. Find sweatshirt that matches or at least blends. Hop on one foot putting socks on. Search for lip gloss. Need the colourless one. Rummage in draw, cursing the Fates. Found: orange lip gloss from more than a year back. Pause. Slight smile. Open it. The sickly sweet smell of fake oranges. Smile widens. Her first snowfall, the smell of winter coats musty from disuse, bright scarves, clumsy gloved hands, the sting of fresh air. Sitting on the windowsill reading...what was it? Moving Pictures. Yeah, the Terry Pratchett phase. The buzzing of the phone. Excited squeals from the other end. What? Snow? Where? Outside your window dumbnut! Where else? Drop the receiver, run to the window. Look out. White drifting down. More excited squeals. Hasty walk undertaken. Struggle into layer after layer, rush out the door, scarf ends flying about, leave key in the lock. Soft chuckle. Dab the gloss on. Lock the door, hum a tune. Memories rock.