Crystal Trino's Journal Sep 3 2006 Entry

September 3. Sunday Night.

Hi Journey.

No dreams! I’m so way glad they’re gone. I wanted nothing more than good sleep these past several nights and at least that dream’s come true.

OK, baaad pun, I know, Journey. But allow me a little levity, OK? The bags under my eyes have almost disappeared. No more cover-up needed.

Good weekend. Spent all day yesterday at shop; blew through paperwork like I was on fire so that by eleven in the morning I was cleared to rough out some new plans for a couple of Dana’s clients. She’s secured two more on her own these past few weeks--closed them mostly on her own with just a little help from Shelly.

Looks like the Viv-Dana tag-team may be history. They’re still talking and taking lunches together, but those girls aren’t glued at the hip anymore.

Viv was out sick Friday. I’m not sure if she really was or not. As her boss I wish she’d just ask for time off rather than lying, but the Friday before Labor Day weekend is typically pretty slow, anyway. Besides, she’s lugged in her fair share of clients in August, too.

I took my trash out late Saturday afternoon. I hate waiting til after dark to tote it out; and I never venture out there in the rain. Anyway, there was an old writing journal propped up against the brick wall of our building, just behind the wheels of the dumpster. It was nearly an inch thick, and covered with a scarlet-colored cloth binding. That cover looked worn but not faded, like it had rubbed lightly back and forth against its neighboring books inside a trunk on a long ocean or train voyage. It was A4 size, very popular in Europe. I looked to be in good shape, as though it hadn’t sat outside long.

I crouched down like a soldier examining a potential booby-trapped gift. It seemed to be a mere abandoned book. I picked it up. Immediately its weight surprised me. The pages inside were lined, white vellum, and several of them were stuck together; although whether this was from getting wet in the rain or from having pages pressed one atop the other too quickly before the ink had dried I couldn’t tell. I’d need to pry those glued-together sheets apart with a thin-bladed knife, if I was to avoid tearing them.

There was no writing at all on the inside cover or the flyleaf, no trace of ownership. All I had to do was take it inside and it was mine.

I propped the book up against the wall of our building, exactly as I’d found it. After all, it wasn’t in the dumpster. Lord only knew who had stashed it there. I didn’t want to heist some poor street person’s diary.

Tuesday. If it’s still there Tuesday night I’ll claim it then.

Goodnight, Journey