Graphic courtesy of Lynn Viehl.
I had big plans for this week. I was going to get up Dark & Early at 4:45 a.m. so I could write a good solid hour+ each morning this week.
Then someone monkeyed with the alarm on That Man’s side of the bed (no one has taken credit. I mean blame). The first time it went off was around midnight. It went off again shortly after that. Then he got a work call at 1 AM. And another at 4 AM.
Needless to say, I didn’t get up on time today.
However, I didn’t have to drive all over everywhere after school today, and we’re having pizza for dinner, so I had this niiiiiccce long stretch of time to write today, plus my lunch. I was able to get my total word count up to just under 4800 words! Woot!
Even better, things are getting really dicey in Charlie’s story.
I always like to share a little when I’m deep in the flow of story, but there’s over 40K story from what I’ve shared here before and what I’m writing now. Lots and lots of story to choose from that’s not anywhere close to what I wrote today. Plus there’s a huge reveal that I don’t want to spoil. So I’ll try to keep the deep dark secrets to a minimum.
He pulled down two wine glasses from the overhead rack and led the way into the living room. Great, now I had to figure out where to sit on the sectional without being too obvious. If I sat on the far side of the L, I’d be able to see him from anywhere but it might look like I was afraid of him. I didn’t want him to think that. Nor did I want to plop down beside him and give him the impression that I was easy pickings. I am, but I don’t need him to know it.
I’d rather sit on the floor any day, especially if I could curl against his legs. But that certainly wasn’t an appropriate first sit-down-and-talk position. Did other people have such incredibly ridiculous difficulty deciding on something as easy as where to sit? He sat in the middle of the sectional and set the bottle and glasses on the table in front of him, yet I stood frozen, unable to make a simple decision about where and how to sit. I tore my gaze away from him and stared at the floor, willing the tears in my eyes to go away.
“I won’t bite,” he said amicably.
I risked a quick glance up at his face, horrified that he might actually think I was afraid. He winked at me, flashing that disarming dimple, and patted the couch beside him. And I went to him, relieved and yet even more upset at my own inability to act like a normal human being. I didn’t say anything while he poured the clear wine into the glasses, barely more than a splash in each.
“I have to drive to the airport so I can’t indulge. But I can’t resist sharing your first glass of good wine, either. If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”
I took the glass but didn’t sip it yet. I tried to sit calmly, like I sat and chatted with people all the time. Not like I was a wreck, waiting for him to tell me what to do. My stomach was in knots, afraid I’d been wrong about him and yet dreadfully sure I wasn’t. I wanted his commands more than anything, but I’d tried so hard to pretend that everything was okay, too.
He leaned back and propped his feet on the table, careful not to knock the bottle over. He wore heavy black motorcycle boots that I found just as intriguing and unexpected as his backyard of cows. He drove a boring beige Buick. Thousands of them drove around Springfield every day. Yet I was pretty sure none of the men inside probably wore heavy black boots with buckles and studs. It made me wonder what kind of surprises he hid under that black turtleneck. Tattoos? Piercings?