I hacked into her Barnard account, saw she had no morning appointments, and headed uptown. Only at her office door did I falter. Blair’s decrees versus my need to talk to her: Think, or act? Confront and correct, or let it be? In one motion, I knocked and entered. Blair looked up. Not horrified. Not pleased. Stunned. Paralyzed. “So I was in the neighborhood …” I said, and the line came out just as light and frothy as it did when I rehearsed it. “You broke the rule. You’re a … violator.” “I throw myself on the mercy of the court.” “My, we are … jaunty for a man who’s misplaced his wife.” “I’m guided by an old blues line,” I said. “My woman’s gone but I don’t worry, ’cause I’m sitting on top of the world.” When I scripted this conversation, Blair responded with something that would have led to more banter.
