threw it from her body. Her alarm sounded at six o’clock, but
she was already on her feet. She let the radio play as she got ready.
After
a quick shower, she shook out her long hair to let it air dry and dressed in
jeans and a thin black cashmere sweater. Then she slipped on her black booties,
grabbed her neurotic bag and headed out on foot toward Uptown Coffee.
Her
walk took her southwest down Montana to San Vicente. Every morning, she passed
her neighbors who also liked the early morning hours. Mrs. Krumholz, who lived
in Daphne’s building, shuffled toward her on the sidewalk with a tiny Yorkshire
Terrier, Guppy. Daphne gave Mrs. Krumholz a quick hug good morning.
“How
are you feeling today?” Daphne asked.
Last
Friday, Daphne had taken Mrs. Krumholz to a doctor’s appointment, the first one
since her former doctor had moved back to the East Coast after getting married.
Daphne had insisted on the check-up when she’d learned that her neighbor hadn’t
seen a doctor in over a year.
“My
hands feel so much better.” Mrs. Krumholz held up hands that rheumatoid
arthritis had twisted into knotted branches. “The new anti-inflammatory drug is
a miracle.”
“You
don’t have to suffer by yourself, Mrs. Krumholz. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I
knew you were a good girl when Guppy didn’t bark at you the first time you
met.”
“Guppy
is a wise creature,” Daphne said. Guppy sniffed Daphne’s feet, perhaps sensing
Sandy’s dogs. At the thought of her explosion at Sandy’s yesterday, Daphne
winced.
“Guppy
is an idiot,” Mrs. Krumholz said. “But she can smell a baddy.”
Daphne
wrapped her arms around Mrs. Krumholz’s frail frame once again. “Remember that
someone here worries about you,” Daphne whispered into her ear.
“I
don’t know why you do,” she said. “But I’ll take it. Now I have to keep walking
before Guppy craps on Mr. Dorsky’s lawn, and he calls the cops.”
Mr.
Dorsky owned the next building over, and he spent an exorbitant amount on
landscaping even by Los Angeles standards. The old woman and her dog made their
slow way back home.
Daphne
didn’t have a blood family any more. She’d abandoned them when they had
abandoned her. But she had worked hard to make a new one. Her neighbors. Greta
and Timmy. Even Sandy. She took care of them.
Once
again thinking of how she’d left things with Sandy, she felt terrible. It was
like remembering a bad dream. She hoped Marlon would show at Rivet that
afternoon.
~~~~
Daphne
entered Uptown Coffee at six-thirty, right when they unlocked the doors. No one
was surprised to see her. Not the barista, Rebekah, nor the owner, Tony. His
last name was Upton—the coffee shop’s name was a bit of a pun. Few knew that
tidbit though.
“Good
morning, Miss Daphne,” Tony said to her. He worked the register most mornings,
before heading to the back to prepare more baked goods. “Americano, as usual?”
“Yes
please.”
“Got
it,” Rebekah said from down the line at the espresso machine.
“I
believe you are nearing the end on these two scripts, are you not?” Tony asked
her.
“That’s
right. It’s April. Just about time to start round two.”
Tony
kept up with Daphne’s work. She wrote six scripts a year, two every four
months. To many in her line of work, that seemed an ungodly pace. To her, it
was plenty slow. Indeed, the pace was so slow it allowed her time to revise
each script with her agent multiple times. She had time to ensure every single
script she wrote sold for something, even if only fifteen thousand dollars.
That was the least her agent would accept for work with Daphne’s name on it.
Most
of her scripts went for far more.
Two
years ago, one of her scripts almost went all the way—the film itself was
nominated for multiple Academy Awards. Not for best original screenplay though.
But Daphne knew how the nominations worked. She was aware she had stepped on
more than a few industry toes.
But
enough
she was already on her feet. She let the radio play as she got ready.
After
a quick shower, she shook out her long hair to let it air dry and dressed in
jeans and a thin black cashmere sweater. Then she slipped on her black booties,
grabbed her neurotic bag and headed out on foot toward Uptown Coffee.
Her
walk took her southwest down Montana to San Vicente. Every morning, she passed
her neighbors who also liked the early morning hours. Mrs. Krumholz, who lived
in Daphne’s building, shuffled toward her on the sidewalk with a tiny Yorkshire
Terrier, Guppy. Daphne gave Mrs. Krumholz a quick hug good morning.
“How
are you feeling today?” Daphne asked.
Last
Friday, Daphne had taken Mrs. Krumholz to a doctor’s appointment, the first one
since her former doctor had moved back to the East Coast after getting married.
Daphne had insisted on the check-up when she’d learned that her neighbor hadn’t
seen a doctor in over a year.
“My
hands feel so much better.” Mrs. Krumholz held up hands that rheumatoid
arthritis had twisted into knotted branches. “The new anti-inflammatory drug is
a miracle.”
“You
don’t have to suffer by yourself, Mrs. Krumholz. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I
knew you were a good girl when Guppy didn’t bark at you the first time you
met.”
“Guppy
is a wise creature,” Daphne said. Guppy sniffed Daphne’s feet, perhaps sensing
Sandy’s dogs. At the thought of her explosion at Sandy’s yesterday, Daphne
winced.
“Guppy
is an idiot,” Mrs. Krumholz said. “But she can smell a baddy.”
Daphne
wrapped her arms around Mrs. Krumholz’s frail frame once again. “Remember that
someone here worries about you,” Daphne whispered into her ear.
“I
don’t know why you do,” she said. “But I’ll take it. Now I have to keep walking
before Guppy craps on Mr. Dorsky’s lawn, and he calls the cops.”
Mr.
Dorsky owned the next building over, and he spent an exorbitant amount on
landscaping even by Los Angeles standards. The old woman and her dog made their
slow way back home.
Daphne
didn’t have a blood family any more. She’d abandoned them when they had
abandoned her. But she had worked hard to make a new one. Her neighbors. Greta
and Timmy. Even Sandy. She took care of them.
Once
again thinking of how she’d left things with Sandy, she felt terrible. It was
like remembering a bad dream. She hoped Marlon would show at Rivet that
afternoon.
~~~~
Daphne
entered Uptown Coffee at six-thirty, right when they unlocked the doors. No one
was surprised to see her. Not the barista, Rebekah, nor the owner, Tony. His
last name was Upton—the coffee shop’s name was a bit of a pun. Few knew that
tidbit though.
“Good
morning, Miss Daphne,” Tony said to her. He worked the register most mornings,
before heading to the back to prepare more baked goods. “Americano, as usual?”
“Yes
please.”
“Got
it,” Rebekah said from down the line at the espresso machine.
“I
believe you are nearing the end on these two scripts, are you not?” Tony asked
her.
“That’s
right. It’s April. Just about time to start round two.”
Tony
kept up with Daphne’s work. She wrote six scripts a year, two every four
months. To many in her line of work, that seemed an ungodly pace. To her, it
was plenty slow. Indeed, the pace was so slow it allowed her time to revise
each script with her agent multiple times. She had time to ensure every single
script she wrote sold for something, even if only fifteen thousand dollars.
That was the least her agent would accept for work with Daphne’s name on it.
Most
of her scripts went for far more.
Two
years ago, one of her scripts almost went all the way—the film itself was
nominated for multiple Academy Awards. Not for best original screenplay though.
But Daphne knew how the nominations worked. She was aware she had stepped on
more than a few industry toes.
But
enough
Similar Books
