mood: irritable

last night's sleep rating: D-

rounds start: as soon as I get up and say let's go

who's late?: nobody.

But I am the one keeping them waiting. They're out in the conference room. The coats are off. The coffee's made and poured.

I'm in my office, just sitting in my chair, my back to the door and my face towards the drawn blinds.

Eileen.

Eileen is the kind of girl who inspires middle-aged men to crank up "Brown-Eyed Girl" when it comes on the radio.

Actually, I don't know what made me think of that song, because there's no way it reminds me of Eileen. It's all wrong. Sure, there's that sweet nostalgia thing, but the song's too perky to get the sorrow and regret part. We never made love in the green grass behind the stadium. Eileen doesn't even have brown eyes. (They're green.) And Eileen was never mine.




I realize that I'm sitting with my head in my hand -- and the ducklings are outside my office waiting for me, I can hear them murmuring, and did they just get Cameron to peek in the window and see what I was doing? I snarl, grab my cane, and haul myself out of my chair. Let's go.