Marilyn came over for dinner. I didn't tell her about what happened the other day. I mean, I could have, but Marilyn isn't prone to believe in extranormal occurrences. Besides, it would probably have killed any chance I had for sex. (Which, it turns out, is still alive and kicking. She got up to change positions and turned her hair a brilliant silver. I love when she does that.)

Dinner was prepared as usual, but with an emphasis on the "romantic," which I don't think my Culinartiste' quite understands yet. It's for myself and a woman, I tell it, and it's still confused. A date, I say. I swear appliances used to know more than they do now.

She fell asleep all tangled in my sheets, and her snoring woke the cleaning bot that lives under the bed. With the robot's whirring and her making so much noise...there wasn't a chance I was going to be able to sleep.

I walked to the Mead and poked my head in, ordered up some news that interested me for a moment. A shuttle carrying pieces for the space station went down, but everyone got out all right. A Florida congressman was having a fit about all the money he'd lost.

Settling myself in the chair, I turned on the classical. Would you like any particular composer, mister Funk? I tell it AutoCompose is fine. And I listen, watching the three dimensional representation of the sad dirge it has decided to create. In the waves and motions I see myself, a man afloat, unsure of his surroundings. Eventually my eyes close, and I sleep.