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10.22.2002 - 8:59 a.m.
Tuesday
NaNoWriMo, Take One:
"If I have one more cup
of coffee I'm going to kill someone." Maggie put down her
empty mug, and flounced back into the couch.
"Fine. Start with Miss
Low Rider over there." I said, nodding my head towards an
ectomorph gushing into a miniscule cell phone, wearing jeans
that showed every inch of her tanned midriff. "God, I hate
her."
PMS City, USA. We'd agreed
to meet at our favorite neighborhood coffeehouse to try and cheer
each other up, but instead ended up brooding and overcaffeinated.
Maggie's been my best friend since college, and she never fails
to be on the same wavelength with me - good or bad.
"You know," Maggie
drawled, winding a scarlet curl around her finger, "I used
to be able to wear jeans like that. Remember?"
I did. Spitfire Maggie, with
the flaming red hair and legs that wouldn't quit. Trailing a
perpetual chaotic mess of half-finished essays and clouds of
reeking Gauloise smoke, Maggie was sleek as a whippet when I
first met her.
She's married now. Mellowed.
More cushioned, less angular. Her personality is still as prickly
as ever, though. Screw with Maggie, and you're likely to get
the razor-sharp side of her tongue.
"Nobody should even design
jeans like that," I said gloomily, stirring the dregs of
my espresso. "Why would I want to wear something that shows
half my ass if I bend over? Next thing you know they'll be selling
butt crack ornaments."
"New from Tarina Tarantino,"
Maggie breathed huskily. "The derriere collection."
We broke into peals of laughter, momentarily displacing our foul
mood.
"Listen, I've got to run."
Maggie stood up, brushing muffin crumbs from her black overcoat.
"Deadlines, deadlines."
"No rest for the wicked.
Call me this weekend." I rose and hugged her goodbye, then
settled back into the raggedy couch we'd inhabited in the corner
of Java Haus. We used to joke that we were just like Friends,
with "our" couch - except, as Maggie put it, "not
in quite the same demographic." A cold gust of air blew
in as she swept out the door, and she waved to me Queen-Mum style.
The midriff-baring girl let
out a brittle squeal at something her phone partner said, and
I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples.
Suddenly, it all seemed so
pointless. What was my character supposed to do next?
Just sit there boorishly drinking endless cups of coffee, maybe
contemplating suicide? Who was this Maggie person, and
was it really necessary to say that her legs would not quit?
The terms 'mawkish' and 'amateur night' come to mind. 48,226
more words about these people? Forget it, no way.
Take Two:
Maggie straddled the German
Shepherd. She tossed her long blond locks, wet her lips, and
stared bravely into the camera. This, she thought, was going
to be the film that launched her career.
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comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004
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