“I should cancel,” I mumble to my reflection. “‘Hey, sorry, Bastian, but I just came down with a terrible case of whooping cough. Or malaria. No, plague. Actually, my face exploded. Yeah, it’s gruesome. No, I can’t show you. Yes, it’s real.’”
I sigh and hang up the imaginary phone. I can’t cancel. More importantly, I don’t want to cancel.
I’ve been buzzing with anticipation all week long. It’s the first countdown since my diagnosis that hasn’t felt depressing. I woke up this morning grinning from ear to ear, and as the hours at work ticked away and 8 P.M. drew closer and closer, that grin found room to keep spreading even wider.
I have no clue what Bastian has planned. I just know that every single Range Rover that’s passed me in the street this week has nearly induced an orgasm.
Basti
