The quiet loft, stuffy from being shut up all day, returned to life as its occupants entered. Jim carried their daily mail. He took a moment to sort the different sized envelops, setting the pesky Visa applications aside. He added one with Blair's name. He'd destroy them later. The rise in identity theft made even junk mail a serious security issue.

Blair began his usual afternoon circuit: tossing his pack of books on the chair; turning on the TV; opening a window; disappearing into his room long enough to come out wearing house slippers before ending up in the kitchen, ready to start dinner preparations. His running commentary made a soothing background noise.

"Then Eric tells the dean that if they hadn't insisted on pinching pennies and buying those cheap computers we wouldn't be faced with the upgrade problems now. I mean, he's right, Jim. Rainier is totally screwed. Nothing's compatible to those dinosaurs we have. Hey, remind me to get these books back to the library tomorrow at lunch..."

The stack of bills with Jim's name was growing. The shorter stack of personal letters displaying overseas postage for Blair looked interesting.

"While I'm on the subject. Did you see my text book on Dream Interpretations? I need it for that paper due Wednesday and I swear I saw it in the bathroom. Like that's proper `john reading' anyway, not enough pictures."

Jim made a mental note to pull that text book out from behind his driver's seat. Brown had enjoyed it thoroughly during their last stakeout, getting enough blackmail material on Rafe to last the rest of the spring.

"Oh, cool. The Simpsons are still on. Hey, Jim? Did you see the one where Maggie grows up and marries some guy? She's totally hot. Who knew?"

Magazines selling sporting goods made decent `john reading' material. Jim placed them near the corner. He'd put them under the sink later.

"Smell the breeze, I love spring. Ever think about getting a sailboat? We could totally get in a few hours of sailing after work. Great stress break and we'd be within walking distance. Ahhh, that's the ticket. Hate to cook when my feet are killing me. Hope you're hungry, man. I'm starving. Got some blue corn chips. How about nacho appetizers to tide us over while the tamales are baking?"

The twenty Jim left out earlier was missing. Good, Blair remembered to take it for Alice's mother, who dropped off home-made tamales at Rainier every other Monday. A dozen for ten bucks, a deal even if they weren't the best thing Jim's tasted in his life.

"You still messing with the mail? That from Naomi? Yeah, look! She's in Spain. Wonder if she's hooked up with Francis again, he's got this shop, incredible swords, forged by hand, man. Twenty-four layers of damascus steel. Hard to find that quality anymore. I'll read it after dinner."

Familiar footsteps neared. The smell of Cuban tobacco confirmed Jim's suspicions. Blair must have blabbed in the bullpen about the tamales. He went to the door. Simon walked in with a grin and grocery sack in his arms.

"Simon!" Blair smiled. "You remembered! Nice! Mexican beer. Come on in, we've got plenty. They're in the oven. Have some nachos. Jim and I were just talking."

Jim closed the door, unable to keep a grin off his face. Leave it to Sandburg to confuse a running monologue with a conversation. Then again, the kid's been reading his mind for months now. He scooped up the sorted mail; left Blair's on the desk just inside the doorway and jogged upstairs to find his own house slippers.

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