I have read that James Thurber, when unable to sleep, would contemplate the structure of a hyacinth. My sleeplessness at the moment is not a problem, as I’m at work. However, I am wracked with agitation, so I am contemplating the single stalk of blue hyacinth given spontaneously yesterday by the Keelhauler. Its structure is remarkable, as is the fragrance, which is lulling me into complacency, keeping my focus off the graphic design job I did not get, for which my boss is at this moment interviewing a candidate in his office. Which is right on the other side of my office wall. So I can hear the annoying laughter and banter of this girl, who speaks with The Quack*, and who irritated me by calling several times to change her interview time, fake-laughing to me on the phone and being infuriatingly indecisive on issues like whether or not to leave him a voice mail.

Not that I am bitter.

Oh, no. The power of the hyacinth is working its magic.

If I just turn up my music a little more, I won’t be able to hear the Quacking. But will they be able to hear my music? I should turn it up a little more. Everybody likes the Monkees, right? I brought this CD in especially for this moment—so that I could cheer myself with the joyful twanging of “Last Train to Clarksville” and imagine myself on a train, heading off to meet my Imaginary Boyfriend Mike Nesmith, who will be waiting there at 4:30. And as I get off the train, he hands me a big bouquet of blue hyacinth and we laugh together, contemplating spending his White-Out fortune money even as the newly hired graphic designer here opens a fresh bottle to try to eradicate a typo.

I think I’ll tap on the wall and see if they answer. I could claim I was concerned that they were being overcome by fumes, and was checking for signs of survival.

My balcony adjoins his. I can walk out there and peer in. I didn’t see what she looks like, but I’m betting her look involves straight, shoulder-length brown hair, a wide span of Chiclet teeth, and shoes from Nine West. I am so much prettier than she is. Taller, too. And I would never shop at Ann Taylor, unlike her—she probably gets all her “coordinates” there. Her “separates.” I’m totally going to go out on that balcony and stare in at her, holding up a bag from Saks Fifth Avenue and pointing to my own shoes. Which, to be fair, I didn’t get at Saks, but what does she know, Miss Genius Graphic Designer Girl, with her coordinated separates and Jetta that Daddy paid for (I guess). What does she know about suffering? She thinks she’s so great. What’s her name? Megan? I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s something like Megan. Ashley. No, Megan.

If anyone calls for my boss while he’s in that interview, I’m totally not taking a message. I’m going to tell the caller that my boss is “listening to music” and can’t be disturbed. “He’s at his Joy of Movement class,” I’ll say, “He’s gone to speak to the John Birch Society.”

There. I just kicked the wall. Did they hear it? I should turn down the music. Are they talking about me? Did I just hear my name?

There. I just kicked it again. If he asks, I’ll tell him I have Tourette’s. I have St. Vitus’s Dance, and you can’t fire me because that is DISCRIMINATION, laugh-boy. Laugh it up with Megan the Ann Taylor shopper. Ha ha ha FUCK! FUCK YOU! The Tourettes comes and goes, but it’s still a protected condition.

And… hyacinth.

Peaceable blue hyacinth.

Consider the structure of the hyacinth, the intricate, elegant structure of the hyacinth.

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* The Quack (n): Speech pattern characterized by rapid, throaty, monotonous speaking; statements voiced as questions; and a propensity for the phrase “You don’t understand,” pronounced as “yunnerstand.” Generally accompanied by a petulant facial expression, expensively highlighted hair, and a marked sense of entitlement.

Star of the day. . .Elaine Bennes