A perfect night
It is the first week in two months that the postdoc can do quiet research (as opposed to preparing talks, travelling to conferences, finishing some overdue reviewing, sorting out students and catching up on administrative matters). Out of sheer happiness, she’s been forgetting to eat. She only realised she was hungry when her hands started slowing down on the keyboard, and her mind started looking like a confused, cloudy sky.
She’s now sitting at her local bar, spending the cash she didn’t use in the last days. All of it (the waiting staff smiled when she ordered). Nina Simone is singing in the background, a man with tattoos is dancing at the counter, two elderly ladies are drinking vermouth, and she, luckiest of all, is sitting in a corner, surrounded with food, staring adoringly at her command line (oh, that glittering $ in her eyes!) and her LaTeX (oh, the elegant \textsc!), not knowing which one to attend to first.
She’s in love with meaning, with its vectorial beauty, with all those idiosyncracies that drive her so hopelessly crazy. And it’s a perfect night.