Zoltan Sighted

I handed him his book. He smiled at me, delighted that it was actually the one he wanted. Does he remember me from all those years ago, when I came to his office sobbing, my mind shredded, like muscle tissue after an overzealous workout, by the formal language? He was smoking Merits, enjoying a collegial conversation with some kid about logarithms or algorithms or some freaking rithms! And when he was through with this philosophy whizkid, he turned to me, read my face and said, "Imagine you have a unicorn named Alma."