67, 68, 69...

A ficlet (and for some a story they already know)

The coffee shop is normally a good place to people watch, though I don’t think I’m going to have much luck today. I have my usual corner table, coffee and laptop out; pretending to be working.

Sitting at the next table are a young mother and her two children. They are maybe 3 and 5 years old and noisy. The mother smiles at me apologetically a few times, aware that her children are causing a general disturbance. I just smile back and nod knowingly, my eyes on the ring on her finger.

The boy is trying to prove to his older sister and mother how high he can count, unaware that he’s proving it to everyone else as he continues right along.

“67, 68, 69.” He stops.

The mother turns up her head to look straight at me. In a voice directed above her children she asks. “You do know what comes after 69, don’t you?”

A wry smile crosses my face, my eyes never leaving hers as I murmur. “I roll you over and take you before sending you home to your family.”

The young boy turns to look at me through eerily familiar eyes.

Autographs

Phil Bourque and Eddie Johnston signed my new 'Class of 1967' Penguins hat tonite.

A 'toe-dip'

"Your hair's a mess, your skirt's hiked up, and your shirt's half open." He observed. "You look like a victim or an invitation."

"Victim? You try walking through the hot sand in a skirt. When the fools at the desk told me you were 'just down the beach' I didn't expect a ten minute hike."

"Upset that they didn't offer to carry you down in a palanquin? Really Mags, you of all people shouldn't be that put out by a short walk."

"Ha. You know when your assistant told me that you were in trouble and needed my help, I assumed the worst. Stretched out in a hammock with a pina colada in your hand doesn't exactly look like you're in trouble."

"But I am. I have a blender full of boat drinks and no one to drink it with."

"You mean to tell me that I spent four hours on your private plane, worried sick, preparing myself for the worst... all because you wanted someone to drink with?"

"You were worried about me? I'm touched."

"Grow up Gabriel."

Hard.

The hardest part about starting to write again is starting to write again.

#edit (about 2 minutes later)

I originally intended this post to be one sentence, but the movie 'Finding Forrester' keeps going through my head:

Forrester: No thinking - that comes later. You must write your first draft with your heart. You rewrite with your head. The first key to writing is... to write, not to think!

Forrester: Writers write things to give readers something to read.