Monday was the reading of Faustus's concentration-camp musical. I showed up at the theater twenty-five minutes early, and he asked me to walk with him to Tower Records to get some blank mini-discs so he could record his music, only Tower Records does not carry blank mini-discs, so we thought to get a quick bite to eat instead of buying mini-discs, only Faustus decided he would much rather spend the remaining time shopping for hair product, so we thought to quickly drop by a salon instead of buying mini-discs and eating, only Faustus decided he did not have time to shop for hair product, either, so he asked me to pick some up and meet him back at the theater.

I went to Duane Reade, perpetrator of Rob's hypothetical Duane Reade Curse. My boyfriend has decided that every Duane Reade experience goes horribly, horribly wrong; I pooh-poohed this theory, purchased the hair product, a soda and a candy bar for Faustus, and an orange juice and a candy bar for me.

Then I got lost on the way back to the theater. The weather was heating up, and I had a quick sip of cool, refreshing orange juice, slipping the bottle back into the bag. I found the proper direction and ran as fast as I could to get back, arriving five minutes late. Panting and sweating, I burst into the small theater and grabbed a seat in the back row. Boy, I thought, do I need another sip of cool, refreshing orange juice right about now! I looked down into the plastic Duane Reade bag and saw . . . cool, refreshing orange juice. Everywhere. Sloshing around, submerging the candy bars and the hair product. Then the bag started leaking. Everywhere. All over my lap and the floor.

Considering everything, Faustus was really quite gracious about it.

And his music was brilliant, too.