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17 June 2007 / April

Triskadecaphobia

Jodi and I were at Barnes Hall yesterday, waiting for the ensemble recital to begin. With characteristic pseudo-superstitiousness, she started counting the names of performers to see whether we were the thirteenth.

We weren’t, but it was a close call: fourteenth. Involuntarily, we both breathed a sigh of relief. It’s easy to get worked up about this sort of thing.

A pause.

“Try counting from the end,” I suggested calmly.

She did. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

Before even reaching our names, we had dissolved into fits of laughter, futilely smothered by our programs.

“That was evil,” she told me, after we had caught our breaths again.

The performance went fine, though.

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