But why can’t one-thirty or two be the routine? Let the cubicle dwellers get back to their desks?”
I was going to answer, but he stepped into the doorway and exchanged a few quick words with the host.
“Are you hungover?” he asked me over his shoulder.
“What? No.”
“Outside is fine,” he said to the host.
The host led us to a sunny table in the corner of the back patio.
I sat with my back against the wall, looking out at the outdoor room. The place was full, tables of people in suits and ties, a small sea of blue against the plants on the far wall. There was a lightness, a whirl of conversations punctuated by laughter. Everyone seemed to be smiling, moving with a casual pleasure in the warm sun, jackets over chair-backs. There was still a slight coolness to the air, but it felt, finally, like spring, and the …
Dale was smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I said. I felt compelled to apologize, but there was nothing I could do to change: there’s a part of me that’s always writing, always mentally capturing a scene, trying to determine how best to present it, what details are important, what can be glossed over. Even when Jacqui and I were at our worst—fighting, crying—part of me was outside of the moment, watching the words as they moved back and forth, noting the way Jacqui tightened her hands into fists as she spoke.
“You always are,” he said.
Every day—multiple times every day—David was reminded of just how much the universe must hate him.
The school assigned lockers by grade, then alphabetically by last name, which meant that he was two metal doors down from Darren Keneally.
Most of the time he tried to avoid making eye contact. He would walk slowly up the hallway, timing his arrival for a moment when it seemed like Darren was focused on something else, then lunge for his locker, spinning the combination lock and swinging the door open as quickly as he could. He would tuck himself behind the light metal door as if it were a shield.
The only problem was, if he was tucked behind the door, he couldn’t keep an eye on what Darren was doing. More than once he had swung the locker door closed only to find his nemesis standing right behind it, inches away, a cruel smile on his face, his laughing friends shifting and bobbing around him.
David had delayed his departure from the science lab for as long as he could after the lunch bell rang, giving Darren and his friends time to get to their lockers and head down to the cafeteria. When he assumed he had waited long enough, he crept out into the hallway.
He sighed. It was mostly deserted. No problem.
He was almost smiling by the time he got to his locker and opened it. Stacking his books carefully on the shelf, he grabbed the lunch that his father had packed and his Nintendo and headed down the corridor toward the exit at the end. His best friend Liam had detention, so David was on his own, but the sun was shining. No reason not to eat out in the corner of the athletic field, far from anyone who might bother him.
“So how’s the book?”
I shook my head. “It can’t possibly be a month already.”
Dale smiled. “I put it in my Palm. ‘Ask Chris about book.’ ”
I had suggested, the year before, that perhaps asking me about the book every time we met might be counterproductive. Too much pressure. So he had decided to take me at my word and only ask me once a month.
“So?” he prodded.
“It’s going fine. I wrote four pages this morning.”
“Any closer to finding the end?”
I puffed out a long breath. “No. Not even close.” I opened the menu.
Dale, however, was not to be put off quite so easily. “Can I suggest, again”—he stressed the last word—“that perhaps your … domestic situation … isn’t entirely conducive to your work?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I wrote a great column this morning. I think—”
“Your column isn’t your writing,” he said, undeterred.
“Did you miss the part where I
I was going to answer, but he stepped into the doorway and exchanged a few quick words with the host.
“Are you hungover?” he asked me over his shoulder.
“What? No.”
“Outside is fine,” he said to the host.
The host led us to a sunny table in the corner of the back patio.
I sat with my back against the wall, looking out at the outdoor room. The place was full, tables of people in suits and ties, a small sea of blue against the plants on the far wall. There was a lightness, a whirl of conversations punctuated by laughter. Everyone seemed to be smiling, moving with a casual pleasure in the warm sun, jackets over chair-backs. There was still a slight coolness to the air, but it felt, finally, like spring, and the …
Dale was smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I said. I felt compelled to apologize, but there was nothing I could do to change: there’s a part of me that’s always writing, always mentally capturing a scene, trying to determine how best to present it, what details are important, what can be glossed over. Even when Jacqui and I were at our worst—fighting, crying—part of me was outside of the moment, watching the words as they moved back and forth, noting the way Jacqui tightened her hands into fists as she spoke.
“You always are,” he said.
Every day—multiple times every day—David was reminded of just how much the universe must hate him.
The school assigned lockers by grade, then alphabetically by last name, which meant that he was two metal doors down from Darren Keneally.
Most of the time he tried to avoid making eye contact. He would walk slowly up the hallway, timing his arrival for a moment when it seemed like Darren was focused on something else, then lunge for his locker, spinning the combination lock and swinging the door open as quickly as he could. He would tuck himself behind the light metal door as if it were a shield.
The only problem was, if he was tucked behind the door, he couldn’t keep an eye on what Darren was doing. More than once he had swung the locker door closed only to find his nemesis standing right behind it, inches away, a cruel smile on his face, his laughing friends shifting and bobbing around him.
David had delayed his departure from the science lab for as long as he could after the lunch bell rang, giving Darren and his friends time to get to their lockers and head down to the cafeteria. When he assumed he had waited long enough, he crept out into the hallway.
He sighed. It was mostly deserted. No problem.
He was almost smiling by the time he got to his locker and opened it. Stacking his books carefully on the shelf, he grabbed the lunch that his father had packed and his Nintendo and headed down the corridor toward the exit at the end. His best friend Liam had detention, so David was on his own, but the sun was shining. No reason not to eat out in the corner of the athletic field, far from anyone who might bother him.
“So how’s the book?”
I shook my head. “It can’t possibly be a month already.”
Dale smiled. “I put it in my Palm. ‘Ask Chris about book.’ ”
I had suggested, the year before, that perhaps asking me about the book every time we met might be counterproductive. Too much pressure. So he had decided to take me at my word and only ask me once a month.
“So?” he prodded.
“It’s going fine. I wrote four pages this morning.”
“Any closer to finding the end?”
I puffed out a long breath. “No. Not even close.” I opened the menu.
Dale, however, was not to be put off quite so easily. “Can I suggest, again”—he stressed the last word—“that perhaps your … domestic situation … isn’t entirely conducive to your work?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I wrote a great column this morning. I think—”
“Your column isn’t your writing,” he said, undeterred.
“Did you miss the part where I
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