The door opened, letting in a gust of wind that blew all the papers from my desk. A person ought to get upset, or at least frustrated when something like that happens, but I felt elated for a moment. Wind was special. It carried things, and it had carried something to me.

I was shuffling to pick up the papers before I remembered that the opening of the door might have heralded more than just the wind. I looked up and saw nothing out of place. Even the door was shut again. I looked down and saw a man picking up my papers.

I suddenly felt out of place in my own office. I scrambled to my feet in a display of my lack of grace, but still somehow managing not to fall. "It's ok, I'll get th--" I began, but he was finished handing them to me before I was finished talking. He wouldn't meet my eyes; and now I was frustrated. But I couldn't have said why. I sat down and exhaled louder than a lady should. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Stevens wants you to do a social column for Joy, the Summer Kick-Off Party. She's sick and-- It's at the Harrison Hotel. But you probably--"

I could only guess that he stopped because I was staring at him, hard. He was staring at the edge of my desk and I could barely hear him with his chin tucked halfway into his collar. His nondescript hair hung like fringe over his brows, obscuring his eyes. I heard myself call him a boy in my head, correcting myself for earlier having called him a man. I tsk'ed. He began to inch toward the door, as if I had dismissed him. Surely he thought I had.

Then his words ran through my head again. A SOCIAL column? I don't write those. Mr. Stevens? He knows I don't write those. Joy is sick? She was fine yesterday. That means a party. I hate parties. Parties mean trying to dress glamorously, and in my case, failing to do so. Damn! I was about to raise my real voice, not just the one in my head. The door swung closed again and I had an all new mosaic of papers on the floor.