over.”
She sat in her loft. Her loft, the one she’d bartered with her creative skills as a catalog… what? Writer? Developer? Psychic? Well, whatever her title, she would embrace the ill-defined work and tamp down on the panic she felt, in general, over being asked to do something besides operating a power point presentation about differentiated instruction and student centered multiple pathways to content.
And she’d do it even though the money would barely keep her in pizzas. Stella was taking sides alright just not all the way. Maybe it was a seventy/thirty split in her favor, but she could live on very little, couldn’t she? She had in college. Besides, how much food did she need? She had all the free bath supplies she could dream of and enough books for at least a week. She was going to do it, and maybe she possessed some hidden talent and would write an academy award winning bath catalog.
She laid out four sheets of paper headed with each category of bath products. There were fizzy bath balls, creamy ones, bubble bath, and shower gels. She set out an extra sheet for the slam-bang introduction. Ideas would flow now. She’d be on fire. On fire any minute.
But instead she sat, stared at the empty sheets, and waited. Maybe creative thought required a moon alignment that hadn’t yet occurred in her lifetime.
When, what felt like an hour later, the doorbell rang, it sounded like rescue. She hadn’t even ordered a pizza yet, but maybe she sent in a psychic request after all.
She went to the door and peeked through the smudged hole at Dan. “I’m not letting you in.”
He leaned closer to the peep hole but didn’t respond.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve even coming here.” A couple of days on her own, and she was already channeling Clint Eastwood.
He lifted a paper bag. “I’ve got a low fat turkey sub on whole wheat.”
Hell. He was playing hard ball now. She was poor and hungry. She thought of her recent enjoyment of pizzas and chocolate and realized Mara didn’t eat low fat subs. “I don’t do diet.”
A packet of mayonnaise danced in front of the peephole.
Shit. Was he going to be thoughtful now? That wasn’t fair. But her stomach didn’t know fair from hungry, and it growled. She wanted that sub. She needed that mayonnaise, and she unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough for her hand to get it. “Thank you.”
He pulled the bag and the elusive packet of fat to his chest. “Uh-uh. The sub comes in. I come in.”
While she considered it, he opened the sack and looked in. “I put some banana peppers on it.”
She smirked at him. He didn’t know anything. “I don’t eat banana peppers.”
He shrugged. “You’ve never had them.”
She rapped the door with a knuckle. “Don’t even.”
His voice, all innocence, rang out in the hall. “Don’t even what?”
She tried to think of a specific warning, but she was too hungry to be quick. “I don’t know exactly. But it’s not going to work. Come in with the damn sandwich, but when I’m done with it, you’re leaving.”
He handed her the bag. “Understood.”
She studied the last banana pepper, a sweet and sour, yellow gem in a sandwich. How had she gone so many years without the sweet pickley goodness of banana peppers? She put it in her mouth and enjoyed the last swallow before she kicked him out, but he pulled a DVD out of his coat pocket. “Charlie’s Angels, the first one, your favorite.”
It surprised her that he even knew that was her favorite. It was so nice of him. It was… “No. I don’t even have a TV, and if I tried to buy one they’d tell me my credit card was cancelled by you.”
He didn’t look like he was going to engage in that conversation, instead he wore his problem-solving face. He’d turn things over until he’d found a perfectly reasonable solution to the situation. They could go to a movie. They could go home, and she could watch her very own copy on her very own TV. Well, she
She sat in her loft. Her loft, the one she’d bartered with her creative skills as a catalog… what? Writer? Developer? Psychic? Well, whatever her title, she would embrace the ill-defined work and tamp down on the panic she felt, in general, over being asked to do something besides operating a power point presentation about differentiated instruction and student centered multiple pathways to content.
And she’d do it even though the money would barely keep her in pizzas. Stella was taking sides alright just not all the way. Maybe it was a seventy/thirty split in her favor, but she could live on very little, couldn’t she? She had in college. Besides, how much food did she need? She had all the free bath supplies she could dream of and enough books for at least a week. She was going to do it, and maybe she possessed some hidden talent and would write an academy award winning bath catalog.
She laid out four sheets of paper headed with each category of bath products. There were fizzy bath balls, creamy ones, bubble bath, and shower gels. She set out an extra sheet for the slam-bang introduction. Ideas would flow now. She’d be on fire. On fire any minute.
But instead she sat, stared at the empty sheets, and waited. Maybe creative thought required a moon alignment that hadn’t yet occurred in her lifetime.
When, what felt like an hour later, the doorbell rang, it sounded like rescue. She hadn’t even ordered a pizza yet, but maybe she sent in a psychic request after all.
She went to the door and peeked through the smudged hole at Dan. “I’m not letting you in.”
He leaned closer to the peep hole but didn’t respond.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve even coming here.” A couple of days on her own, and she was already channeling Clint Eastwood.
He lifted a paper bag. “I’ve got a low fat turkey sub on whole wheat.”
Hell. He was playing hard ball now. She was poor and hungry. She thought of her recent enjoyment of pizzas and chocolate and realized Mara didn’t eat low fat subs. “I don’t do diet.”
A packet of mayonnaise danced in front of the peephole.
Shit. Was he going to be thoughtful now? That wasn’t fair. But her stomach didn’t know fair from hungry, and it growled. She wanted that sub. She needed that mayonnaise, and she unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough for her hand to get it. “Thank you.”
He pulled the bag and the elusive packet of fat to his chest. “Uh-uh. The sub comes in. I come in.”
While she considered it, he opened the sack and looked in. “I put some banana peppers on it.”
She smirked at him. He didn’t know anything. “I don’t eat banana peppers.”
He shrugged. “You’ve never had them.”
She rapped the door with a knuckle. “Don’t even.”
His voice, all innocence, rang out in the hall. “Don’t even what?”
She tried to think of a specific warning, but she was too hungry to be quick. “I don’t know exactly. But it’s not going to work. Come in with the damn sandwich, but when I’m done with it, you’re leaving.”
He handed her the bag. “Understood.”
She studied the last banana pepper, a sweet and sour, yellow gem in a sandwich. How had she gone so many years without the sweet pickley goodness of banana peppers? She put it in her mouth and enjoyed the last swallow before she kicked him out, but he pulled a DVD out of his coat pocket. “Charlie’s Angels, the first one, your favorite.”
It surprised her that he even knew that was her favorite. It was so nice of him. It was… “No. I don’t even have a TV, and if I tried to buy one they’d tell me my credit card was cancelled by you.”
He didn’t look like he was going to engage in that conversation, instead he wore his problem-solving face. He’d turn things over until he’d found a perfectly reasonable solution to the situation. They could go to a movie. They could go home, and she could watch her very own copy on her very own TV. Well, she
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