Logan reaches beyond my wildest dreams. On our own, unencumbered by rules and roles, we seem to fit well together. He has his moods, to be sure, but he doesn’t snore too loudly, and he makes me feel like a sexual goddess every minute of every day. There is the age difference, but maybe we can overcome that? There’s his reputation, and my lack of one. Can we bridge that? In our own little world, I feel as if we could conquer anything, but I remind myself I’ve not met anyone from his life, nor he from mine. When I think about that, my doubts surface. My parents would never approve, of course, but I’ll be risking their support and approval just by moving to New York. And what would Logan’s reader-fans think if the bad boy of literature settled down with a wet-behind-the-ears college grad? Could that affect his established yet still burgeoning career?
Regardless of where my imagination is taking me, is Logan just playing out a fantasy with his muse? All he said was, “ If we lived here…”. Maybe it means nothing. I’m just a painter, but I’m well aware that the world of “ what if ” is a writer’s playground. And he hasn’t brought it up again since yesterday.
I wander around a snowy Washington Square with these thoughts bouncing around my brain.
After a mid-morning visit to the Museum of Modern Art, Logan escorted me back to the apartment and then left to meet his agent, Lowell. I was feeling restless, I decided to take a walk and discovered this wonderful square where, even in the middle of winter, scores of people wander with their thoughts and quiet conversation. A very bundled up old woman sits on a bench tossing seeds to the pigeons. The two inches of snow on the ground lends a quality of hushed sound and glowing light. I feel as if I’m walking through a postcard.
When my fingers get too cold, I return to the apartment and fire up the Nespresso machine. I scan the packed bookshelves and find a slim first edition of The Unbearable Lightness of Being . I settle in to read until Logan returns.
***
I manage to skim the first thirty pages before I hear the locks click and retract.
Logan returns from having coffee with his agent.
“He was impressed with the weight of that stack of pages. Now I’ll have to wait to see if that impression extends to the words themselves.” He absently bites at his thumbnail.
“He will be,” I say to reassure him. But what do I know? I’m guessing, for a writer, this is one of those tense stretches of time when you wait to find out if you’re on the right or the wrong track. The unveiling of a painting isn’t so time consuming. It’s initially perceived in a matter of seconds, but writing takes hours, days, or weeks to assess. A different kind of patience is required.
“By the way, Lowell invited us to an art opening in Chelsea. At first I said no—I hate those stuffy gatherings—but then I thought you might enjoy it. Would you?”
I smile. “Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I do that more often than you might imagine.”
I smile again. That may be true but I doubt it’s as much as I’d like. There are more thoughts in this man’s brain than I’ll ever know. I’m glad to at least occupy a tiny space in there.
“When’s the opening?” I’m thinking we may have some time for a little fun first.
“Seven. A wine and cheese thing. We can go out to eat after.” He tosses his Fedora onto the dining table.
“Or come back here?” I sidle up to him. My hands push against his tweed lapels until the jacket falls from his shoulders. I start to work the buttons of his shirt. He dressed so nicely to meet his agent. I now want to balance out the nice with some naughty.
“And eat each other?” he says, playing along.
I nod, trailing my fingernails across his recently revealed pecs until he shivers. “Because you are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted .”
I unbutton his slacks and slide my hands around back so I can grab his
Regardless of where my imagination is taking me, is Logan just playing out a fantasy with his muse? All he said was, “ If we lived here…”. Maybe it means nothing. I’m just a painter, but I’m well aware that the world of “ what if ” is a writer’s playground. And he hasn’t brought it up again since yesterday.
I wander around a snowy Washington Square with these thoughts bouncing around my brain.
After a mid-morning visit to the Museum of Modern Art, Logan escorted me back to the apartment and then left to meet his agent, Lowell. I was feeling restless, I decided to take a walk and discovered this wonderful square where, even in the middle of winter, scores of people wander with their thoughts and quiet conversation. A very bundled up old woman sits on a bench tossing seeds to the pigeons. The two inches of snow on the ground lends a quality of hushed sound and glowing light. I feel as if I’m walking through a postcard.
When my fingers get too cold, I return to the apartment and fire up the Nespresso machine. I scan the packed bookshelves and find a slim first edition of The Unbearable Lightness of Being . I settle in to read until Logan returns.
***
I manage to skim the first thirty pages before I hear the locks click and retract.
Logan returns from having coffee with his agent.
“He was impressed with the weight of that stack of pages. Now I’ll have to wait to see if that impression extends to the words themselves.” He absently bites at his thumbnail.
“He will be,” I say to reassure him. But what do I know? I’m guessing, for a writer, this is one of those tense stretches of time when you wait to find out if you’re on the right or the wrong track. The unveiling of a painting isn’t so time consuming. It’s initially perceived in a matter of seconds, but writing takes hours, days, or weeks to assess. A different kind of patience is required.
“By the way, Lowell invited us to an art opening in Chelsea. At first I said no—I hate those stuffy gatherings—but then I thought you might enjoy it. Would you?”
I smile. “Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I do that more often than you might imagine.”
I smile again. That may be true but I doubt it’s as much as I’d like. There are more thoughts in this man’s brain than I’ll ever know. I’m glad to at least occupy a tiny space in there.
“When’s the opening?” I’m thinking we may have some time for a little fun first.
“Seven. A wine and cheese thing. We can go out to eat after.” He tosses his Fedora onto the dining table.
“Or come back here?” I sidle up to him. My hands push against his tweed lapels until the jacket falls from his shoulders. I start to work the buttons of his shirt. He dressed so nicely to meet his agent. I now want to balance out the nice with some naughty.
“And eat each other?” he says, playing along.
I nod, trailing my fingernails across his recently revealed pecs until he shivers. “Because you are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted .”
I unbutton his slacks and slide my hands around back so I can grab his
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