“So you’re a writer? No way! How do you do that!?” The man held his drink while talking with his hands.
She watched the wine slosh from side to side, and wondered how close it could get to the top without spilling over. Maybe she should have said she was the Tooth Fairy. It might have been easier to explain. “I take the stuff in my head, and I put it down on paper. Although I suppose technically, I’m a typer and often a deleter. That’s not to be confused with a repo guy. They get paid when they take things away.”
“So you don’t have a real job? Must be nice.”
“Jiminy Cricket told me that I couldn’t because I tell too many lies. I’ve had a few nose jobs. Occupational hazard. Last time I asked for one like Jennifer Aniston’s. She has a great nose.” She knew what constituted a real job. It was only a matter of time before he asked.
“So writing—what does that pay?” We have a winner.
“Hahahahaha. No really, you’re killing me. The commute is good, though.” Every job had its perks. Unfortunately she had to clean up her own office, and there was no cafeteria in the building. She measured the distance between herself and the bar. He was blocking the way.
“What do you write?” he asked.
“I’m working on a novel.” She braced herself for the next question and hoped she would be wrong this time.
“Is it anything like 50 Shades of Gray? Wink, wink.” She wasn’t.
“It’s more like a cross between the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It would make a great movie for Sandra Bullock.” She let him wrap his head around that one. “In the meantime, I blog.”
“Oh I know,” he said. “You’re one of those Mommy Bloggers who write about feminist issues and cute things their kids say. Have I read anything you’ve written?”
So he had her there. She’d been accused of writing about her son’s laundry once too often, but he didn’t have to know that. “I’ve had a couple of stories published in Baby B’Funny and Angrywoman.org. I’m working my way up to It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad Mom, but I’m waiting for my son to do something really stupid, like date.”
“Doesn’t your son resent you writing about him?”
“Not at all,” she said. “He’s thrilled. He takes my essays to school and reads them out loud at lunch. He’s so proud.” Writers make good liars, she thought. After all, they believed their own stories. “In the meantime, I just make up stuff about him. It’s what I do with everyone.” She knew that would wipe the grin off his face.
“You’re not going to write about this conversation, are you?”
“No, of course not. Why would I do that? Excuse me while I jot a few notes.”
“I think I need a refill,” he said.
“Finally,” she sighed. “Works every time.”
Words by J. B. Everett
Photograph “Cocktail Time” by Ambernambrose © 2010 Creative Commons
