July 16, 2009 -- 11:14 p.m.
Today, Fred, my boyfriend, who is invisible to everyone else but me, brought me a single butter-gold daffodil and laid it across my keyboard.
"Go away, Fred, I'm writing," I told him.
He smiled and shrugged. "Not really. You're just fantasizing."
"No I'm not!" I ran my eyes down his hard, long body. Ruffled brown hair fell just short of eyes the electric blue of a nightclub sign. His thin fingers drummed on my desk, ready to dig into the vitals of a well-oiled motorcycle or fix my broken laptop. "Fantasizing? Well, maybe just a little."
"More than just a little. Did you know that 84% of writers have conversations with their characters? Fiction writers have major mental defects."
"If you're my perfect boyfriend, why are you arguing with me?"
"I don't know. You're the one with the psychosis."
"Shut up, Fred."
Posts
You're so funny!
And I just realized how young you are/how old I am. Good grief; I could be your (youngish) mother. I'm glad I didn't realize that at the workshop.