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On Wednesday Ben told me to talk about Monday. It was, in some ways, a fairly typical Monday.

The first thing I did (well, aside from turning off the alarm, grimacing at the unraked leaves in the back yard (EVERY SINGLE ONE clearly visible in the morning light) and stumbling groggily to the shower) was select the tie-dye shirt most likely to make my skip retch. (I had got The Call to spare; apparently he had called everyone better — or at least less annoying — on the spares list.) (Oh, and it worked. He did retch, but it might just have been my shotmaking; I can’t be totally sure.) Despite my attitude, ‘skill’ and wardrobe, we handed a defeat to a team that hadn’t lost a game all season. (Our lead was a shriner — even though he left his fez at home, that’s probably what put us over the top. I don’t think I helped matters much when I started throwing shots while lying on my back with my head in my armpit.)

After the game I destroyed a few (sixteen — only six hundred ninety-seven to go) resonators, then headed home and sliced chorizo.

Well, and other things.

Then came hockey. (Monday is, after all, hockey day.) Unlike that other time there was no Significant Music, just more than the usual number of, um, ‘aggressive’ drivers who collectively ensured that I arrived at the arena in plenty of time to have a discussion about the ritualistic inbreeding of graduate students with a goalie who has the same name as my brother-in-law. The game went pretty well — I didn’t score or even threaten to but we had three people on the bench (my favorite) which kept the celebratory barfing at bay.

After the game, after the shower, after the inevitable search for a missing elbow pad, I stumbled out of the more-than-slightly fetid change room, almost flattening several nice ladies in the process, and lurched toward an empty spot where I could sit, shiver and check my email.

There wasn’t much — just a last-minute crisis involving a gamer — so I stood up, grabbed my bag and headed for the door that led into the part of the building that was actually heated. At the door was a young gentleman, probably six years old or so. As I approached he opened the door and held it for me.

Not being totally without social graces I nodded to him and said thank you.

“Thank you” I said.

He beamed and replied “You’re welcome, old man.”

Well, that wasn’t typical.


The Author

Rose Glace is the pseudonym of nobody important.


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