Snippets from a scene (Fiction from my Attic) Or, My get-a-story-about-a-writer out of my system attempt
He slipped in to the elevator behind me, fairly innocently but a bit too closely, a bit too familiar. There was something intimate about the way he looked at me, as if he thought I should recognize him. For a minute I thought I did but I shook it off, I would have remembered him he was that fine.
Out of, I don’t know what, I couldn’t meet his eyes, I wanted to, felt drawn to, but just could not do it. So I stared at my toes, wondering when I would feel like painting them. Slowly the elevator crept up to the 23rd floor. When did I notice he hadn’t pushed a button? Probably around 21. But my office was on sort of a community floor, the price I paid for wanting an office outside of the house before I really needed one. I was a writer, a freelance one, and I could write any where I wanted so why I chose to do it from time to time in an office I paid too much for was no one’s business but mine.
Anyway, I felt like he was weighing me and I was a few pounds shy of what he bargained for. He smiled as he stepped on to my floor and held the door open as I fumbled with my keys.
“You never remember where you left your keys,” he said chuckling.
Still when he followed me in to my office I felt a bit too comfortable and by the time he sat down in the guest chair closest to my desk, I was closer to stunned.
“Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Alex…Reese.”
If I know anything at all about myself, it is that I am a terrible actress so I am sure my face registered a bit of surprise.
“You haven’t had your coffee,” he apologized, “be right back.” And off he went to get the coffee I needed to process just how one of the characters I was creating ended up sitting next to me in my office.
“Just like you like it, 6 cream, 6 sugars.”
“And how exactly do you know so much about me?”
“What? I know as much about you as you do about me, though probably more. Anyway, I’m here to find out why you haven’t been writing about me, I have some things left to do.”
“You realize, I’m sure, that I write murder mysteries? And most of my victims are men?”
“We’ll have to see what we can do about changing that.”
“And what were you hoping I would write for you?”
“A romance,” he grinned.