Our Heroine is given a Passover gift of coconut macaroons.

The office is quiet, this week, and a little chilly--there’s no heat and no air conditioning, so I’m dependent upon my clever layering techniques to keep myself looking professional without that which would make me very happy: a balaclava. I imagine a chic balaclava is difficult to find, much less one that is suitable for cubicle-wear.

Anyway, I’ve decided that I’m only ever wearing outfits with skirts when I go outside in Italy: the last three times I’ve been to the caffe’ down the hall from this office I’ve been treated very politely, given all the twists, curls, and sprinkled chocolate powder on my cappuccino, and inadvertently sent to the front of the line of corporate business suits to get my office’s drinks on a cute little tray. Both baristas smile and nod at me when I enter the caffe’. It is a little disconcerting, but I guess the feminine skirt has its advantages in a world of suits and ties. I don’t feel guilty at all, no . . .

There ought to be something else to say about my work as it stands now, but really it is a very quiet existence, and weary come 2 o’clock in the afternoon. The last two hours seem to last forever until I lock up and run for the bus; the air outside always seems blue and thick about that time, and waiting for the bus feels like being suspended in water.

My house smells like fresh bread and April rain. Time for sleep.