match
the level of my writing’s depravity.
I catch myself cringing and then force myself
to relax. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do before a traumatic collision?
Relax, and then it won’t hurt as much.
Finally—finally!!—he deliberately sets the
electronic tablet on the low table in front of our chairs, but instead of
returning to an upright position, he remains bent at the waist, his elbows
resting on his knees as he lets his head hang, seemingly enthralled with
something on the carpeted floor between his shiny shoes.
I refuse to say anything. I’m not going to
play dumb and ask if he likes it; but I’m also definitely not going to
anticipate his wrath and put derogatory words in his mouth.
“So…” he says more like a sigh than a word
after what feels like at least ten minutes of thick, suffocating silence. Now
he turns his head to look at me and smiles.
At first, I’m thrown. The smile is extremely cute.
And it makes me think he actually liked my changes. Then I recognize the pity
in it. Huh? Pity?! I think not! Anger, I can take. But his sympathy (and I
don’t even know what it’s for yet)… I don’t think so.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask
warily, the tension returning to my shoulders. And neck and abs and legs and
every other muscle used to keep me vertical.
Before answering, he shifts his weight back
and forth from his toes to his heels a few times. Then he purses his lips,
sighs for real, and says, “What’s going on here?”
“Here?” I repeat so I can stall as the
following races through my mind: OhfuckheknowsI’mlyingabouteverythingwell,noteverythingbutsomethings,bigthings.HeknowsI’mnotawriterandthatmystoryisrealrealrealrealreal.Fuckfuckshitdamnhellballs!!!
But on the outside, I’m as calm as the surface
of a lake on a hot, still, stifling day. I have to remain motionless, because
if I move, I’ll start to shake. And sweat. And blush.
He sits back in his chair and places his hands
on top of his head. In this midst of this extremely stressful situation, I
manage to notice that he looks tired. He also needs a haircut. Yep. My world
may be coming apart, but I can see that his hair is feathering out over the
tops of his ears. And for some reason, I care.
“Come on,” he interrupts my musings on his
coif as he curtly gestures with a nod of his head toward the now-idle iPad. His
tone is mild as he asks, “What the hell’s that about, huh?”
This calm, laidback Lucas Edwards is freaking
me out. It’s like dealing with a stranger, and trying to figure out the best
way to respond to him is quickly exhausting me. He’s laying traps, a minefield
of them, surely.
“Ummm…” I hum noncommittally.
“That’s crap.” Again, he nods toward the table
so there’s no misunderstanding.
Okay. Whew. So, I know for sure that he hates
it now. Which is what I wanted, right? I didn’t want him to like the changes. I
wanted him to say, “The old way was better.” Still, his blunt assessment
stings. I know it’s crap; I intended it to be crap; but only I can say
it’s crap.
I lift my chin. “If you say so…”
“Oh, I do,” he says, making a sound that takes
a while for me to realize is laughter.
First pity and now ridicule? Uh-uh!
Instinctively, I find myself defending what I
know to be the worst work I’ve ever done.
“Whatever!”
Okay, it’s a lame defense, one used by every
person under the age of twenty-five when they have no true defense. It’s a
defense I should have outgrown by now. But… I can’t think of anything else to
say.
His expression turns to one of undisguised
scorn. “‘Whatever’? That’s all you can come up with? And here I was thinking
what I read was a well-crafted joke. Now I’m reconsidering. Maybe the person
who retorts with, ‘Whatever,’ doesn’t know how to write any better than that.”
I mentally shake it off, roll my head on my
neck, and take a deep breath. Meanwhile, in reality, I remain frozen,
the level of my writing’s depravity.
I catch myself cringing and then force myself
to relax. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do before a traumatic collision?
Relax, and then it won’t hurt as much.
Finally—finally!!—he deliberately sets the
electronic tablet on the low table in front of our chairs, but instead of
returning to an upright position, he remains bent at the waist, his elbows
resting on his knees as he lets his head hang, seemingly enthralled with
something on the carpeted floor between his shiny shoes.
I refuse to say anything. I’m not going to
play dumb and ask if he likes it; but I’m also definitely not going to
anticipate his wrath and put derogatory words in his mouth.
“So…” he says more like a sigh than a word
after what feels like at least ten minutes of thick, suffocating silence. Now
he turns his head to look at me and smiles.
At first, I’m thrown. The smile is extremely cute.
And it makes me think he actually liked my changes. Then I recognize the pity
in it. Huh? Pity?! I think not! Anger, I can take. But his sympathy (and I
don’t even know what it’s for yet)… I don’t think so.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask
warily, the tension returning to my shoulders. And neck and abs and legs and
every other muscle used to keep me vertical.
Before answering, he shifts his weight back
and forth from his toes to his heels a few times. Then he purses his lips,
sighs for real, and says, “What’s going on here?”
“Here?” I repeat so I can stall as the
following races through my mind: OhfuckheknowsI’mlyingabouteverythingwell,noteverythingbutsomethings,bigthings.HeknowsI’mnotawriterandthatmystoryisrealrealrealrealreal.Fuckfuckshitdamnhellballs!!!
But on the outside, I’m as calm as the surface
of a lake on a hot, still, stifling day. I have to remain motionless, because
if I move, I’ll start to shake. And sweat. And blush.
He sits back in his chair and places his hands
on top of his head. In this midst of this extremely stressful situation, I
manage to notice that he looks tired. He also needs a haircut. Yep. My world
may be coming apart, but I can see that his hair is feathering out over the
tops of his ears. And for some reason, I care.
“Come on,” he interrupts my musings on his
coif as he curtly gestures with a nod of his head toward the now-idle iPad. His
tone is mild as he asks, “What the hell’s that about, huh?”
This calm, laidback Lucas Edwards is freaking
me out. It’s like dealing with a stranger, and trying to figure out the best
way to respond to him is quickly exhausting me. He’s laying traps, a minefield
of them, surely.
“Ummm…” I hum noncommittally.
“That’s crap.” Again, he nods toward the table
so there’s no misunderstanding.
Okay. Whew. So, I know for sure that he hates
it now. Which is what I wanted, right? I didn’t want him to like the changes. I
wanted him to say, “The old way was better.” Still, his blunt assessment
stings. I know it’s crap; I intended it to be crap; but only I can say
it’s crap.
I lift my chin. “If you say so…”
“Oh, I do,” he says, making a sound that takes
a while for me to realize is laughter.
First pity and now ridicule? Uh-uh!
Instinctively, I find myself defending what I
know to be the worst work I’ve ever done.
“Whatever!”
Okay, it’s a lame defense, one used by every
person under the age of twenty-five when they have no true defense. It’s a
defense I should have outgrown by now. But… I can’t think of anything else to
say.
His expression turns to one of undisguised
scorn. “‘Whatever’? That’s all you can come up with? And here I was thinking
what I read was a well-crafted joke. Now I’m reconsidering. Maybe the person
who retorts with, ‘Whatever,’ doesn’t know how to write any better than that.”
I mentally shake it off, roll my head on my
neck, and take a deep breath. Meanwhile, in reality, I remain frozen,
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