“I don’t write romances.”

April 27, 2008 at 3:53 pm (Random Writing)

Random writing that started over Christmas break. I’d love to know what you think. He’s a fairly unfriendly person, but oh well.

The blonde settled into the seat across from him, almost as if he had been saving it for her. He hadn’t been. In fact, company was perhaps the last thing he wanted right then. And while he didn’t advertise that fact, he had assumed it would be fairly obvious to anyone who really cared. There had been plenty of open seats, even at the plush couches that were a haven for those looking for another to hear whatever inflated opinions they had, but he had opted for the lonely corner table. Not to mention, he had been typing a way at his keyboard with quite a bit of zeal, even ignoring his own coffee. Yes, despite the cliché, he was writing in a chic little coffee shop nestled on a corner with soft jazz playing over the muted hum of conversation.
“You’re that writer, aren’t you?” twittered the woman. She was smiling far too widely. Had he been the type to feel any concern for others, he would have worried that she was about to pull something. Fortunately, he didn’t even pause to waste the brain cells to consider it.
“Yes. Jonathan Crown.”
“I’m Marguerite, and I love your books. I mean, they’re so…existential and full of…stuff. You know?” Her hand had been extended for the duration of the meeting, but he didn’t even look at it or her. Instead, his eyes trailed wearily over his screen. And, while he was pleased that his works were full of “stuff,” he really couldn’t find much of a reason to pay attention. She was gorgeous, he mentally conceded. And she apparently kept up with the world well enough to know that he was one of the more famous scribblers of the day, but there didn’t seem to be much ticking away behind those dimly gazing blue eyes. Had he needed someone to screw around with, and of course he meant that literally, the idea would not have been unpleasant. But, he had given up on such things.
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Are you working on something now?”
“Do you think I could read it?” She tilted her head to the side a little, twirling a strand of hair slowly between her fingers. Her eyes tried to spark coquettishly, but the lack of attention was finally beginning to register.
“No.” He paused in his perusal of the few lines he had typed, staring her straight in the eyes. Her smile flared back to life and he mentally scolded himself for encouraging her. “Can I do anything else for you Maggie?”
“It’s Marguerite. But, that doesn’t really matter. It’s a hard name to remember.” He didn’t need much imagination to see her having fits with it herself. “I just wondered if you might want to grab some coffee. You know, get to know each other. I’m new in town.” So were half the other people wandering the streets. He didn’t go out to coffee with them, though, did he?
He picked up the paper cup at his elbow, tipped it towards her, and then took a quick drink. Cold. No, lukewarm, which was decidedly worse. “Thanks Margie. It was lovely.”
She was laughing, he was back to reading. That sound was obnoxious. It was like someone was throwing paper airplanes into his eyes, halting any attempt at concentration. “You are so funny!” She reached over and laid a hand on his arm, bringing her inches closer to him. He glanced at the manicured hand lying there, then back to the screen. She would move. “What about drinks?”
How had he forgotten? Of course coffee wasn’t a drink! Oh, modern language and it’s terrible ambiguities. “Listen, I’d love to. But I’m really afraid you’d get lost on the way there, and how could I live with myself then? So, for your own good, how about you go back to your friends and talk about how men are pigs and you just have to start working out because, dear God, you’ve put on a quarter of a pound, and you leave me to slave away and ponder what I let walk away.” Venom dripping, he let the conversation lie there and quake out its last throes of anguish. She got up after a second, the shock having sunk in, and huffed back over to her little clique. He didn’t look up, didn’t watch her walk away. He had work to do.
The hours slipped slowly away as the lines trailed farther and farther down the page. Still, it was slow going. Perhaps he could talk to the management about a change in music. Heaven only knew no one really liked the noise they played. But, the sun sank low on the horizon, disappeared, and night stole over the city with a deadly stealth. Judging by the obvious haste of those walking on the street, it must have turned terribly cold. Margie had gone long ago, her place filled by numerous other guests. He had to admit, none were quite as entertaining or temping. But, he was now the only person left in the shop. The table was littered by three empty cups and a scattering of change that glinted dully under the lights. But, it was closing time. Or so the annoyed employee seemed to imply as she glowered at him from behind the bar.

And that’s what I’ve got. Yes, his thing is that he doesn’t write romances (not even for you). It comes into play later. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at a little romantic drama-comedy. Oh, and I hate his name right now. It needs to be different, but I can’t decide what…

Love ya.


1 Comment

  1. Amber said,

    Not bad for a romantic comedy, but remeber to avoid cliches such as eyes sparking. Also, show don’t tell. If you took out the explanation of his motives and just had his actions conveying them, I think it would be stronger. But, like I said, not bad. We definitely need to get together and do some writing exercises soon.

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