Their office, not mine

I was up early on Monday, getting ready to go to the office. Their office, not mine. And I spent the better part of the day twiddling images, updating software, and giving my lecture about version numbers, and why a copy of an older program won’t open a copy of document created with a much newer version of the same program — seems like the name alone doesn’t mean that it’s always going to work. Near as I can tell, I picked a good day to be indoors. The thunder rumbled through, the rain came down, and the only chance I got was fielding one call from a Cappy, a little distraught about her [romantic interest] situation. There’s a little chain of Vietnamese restaurant stretched along the Texas Coast, and up into my neck of the woods. I relented, even after working all day, to step out for a quick meal with the Cap, poor dear, and we shared a quick bite. Fresh basil and peppers adorned the steaming bowl of noodles. She did remind me that it’s getting close to a good time for my annual hair cut. “Just a trim, I promise — I know how you are,” she suggested, with a roll of her eyes. Late last night, there was the lonely noise of rain beating a steady, almost fevered pitch as it sounded like inch after inch of water fell from the skies. There was the faintest hint of opera music — yes, I live in a weird place as one of my neighbors was listening to heavy set voice bellow in Italian, against the stormy backdrop. I wonder if that had anything to do with the plot of the opera’s story?