“I wish you’d not sneak up on me like that. It freaks me out and I lose the flow,” I said.
“What the heck does that even mean? Who’s THIS woman your main character’s talking about,” Jeanne said, her finger leaving a smudge on my computer screen. Her tone more accusatory than interrogative.
“She’s the angel who smashed the bottle on the bow of his Titanic of a life,” I said.
“The Titanic sunk,” she said. “So you’ve longed for some woman all this time? And you’re going to write about her for the whole world to read and talk about? I hate you.”
“She’s imaginary, like Queen Elsa and Olaf,” I said.
“Well she came from some somewhere inside you. You couldn’t have just made her up from nothing. Who is she, Eddie?” Jeanne said.
“Do you know how many books I’ve read over my whole life? Thousands. And all those characters are smushed together up here,” I said, pointing at the side of my head. “My imagination just picks pieces of those characters and builds a new one. That’s where she came from. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll put a big notice on the flyleaf that swears that. Okay?”
“Eighteen,” I said.
“Okay,” Jeanne said.
“Now can I get back to this? My deadline…”
“Okay. But please don’t work too late. We’re going to Mom’s tomorrow and you can’t be nodding off again.”
“I’ll be up soon. I promise,” I said.
When the door clicked shut, I returned to my keyboard, closed my eyes and that snowy day thirty years ago with Diana flowed back to me. And started I typing again.
This is a slightly lengthened version of my 250-word story for Siobhan Muir’s Thursday Threads flash fiction contest. I had to use a phrase from last week’s winning story (my own): “What the heck does that even mean?” If you’re a writer, a romantic or a romantic writer, you know what this story is about. If you’re not… Well, it’s about angels and magic.