Okay, so maybe Chloe was right after all.
Maybe Idohave it bad.
The words are flowing today.
Like, flowing.
This hasn’t happened in months. Months and months and months and I am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth over it. (What the hell does that even mean, anyway? I make a note togoogle later…) I keep typing, and the sexual tension between my pastry chefs is so thick, they could cut it with one of their pastry rollers.
My fingers fly over the keyboard.
This. This is what every writer lives for. Well, I can only speak for myself, but I’m pretty sure this kind of forward motion on a project is what we all strive for. This pace. This steadiness. This confidence.
I don’t normally stop at the end of a scene—I like to stop mid-scene so I can hit the ground running when I sit down next time—but I write the perfect hook to keep readers wanting to turn the page to the next scene, and then I realize how stiff my body is. When I glance at my phone, it tells me I’ve been working for four solid hours.
I can’t remember the last time that happened.
I take a quick look at my word count and am shocked. It’s been so long since I wrote that much in one sitting. I can feel these characters. I canfeelthem. It’s exactly what I need to write a believable story, and it’s only right now, in this moment, that I realize how very nervous I’ve been that I wasn’t ever going to feel a character that way again. My eyes well up, and the deep breath I take is audibly shaky.
I push myself to my feet. I need to stretch, to move, my muscles are stiff, and there’s a throbbing ache in my back. Reggie is on the sofa, but his head is up and he’s watching me.
“How do you feel about a walk, buddy?”
It takes him about 2.5 seconds to be at my feet staring up at me in expectation.
“I’ll take that as alet’s go, Mom.” I clip his leash on him, scoop him up, and we head out to the elevator.
I’m not even sure what day it is. Chloe left yesterday, so that would make it…Tuesday? I think. Yeah. That’s right. It’s Tuesday. The front desk is empty, Marco must be off taking careof some hotel chore, and Reggie and I head outside.
The heat is very slowly starting to break, which is such a relief. It’s warm, but bearably so, and we merge into the bustling foot traffic on our street. The sky is cloudy and gray and I wonder if we might finally get some rain.
Reggie and I take our time strolling. It feels good just to be moving. The chair in my suite isn’t the most comfortable, and after so long in the same position, my back is screaming. But the walking is good, the feel of solid ground under my feet, the fresh air in my lungs, the bustle of others in this world with me, my adorable dog’s butt as he trots along in front of me—all these things are highly noticeable right now. It’s what happens when I’m in the perfect creative frame of mind. I see and feel everything around me as if it’s magnified. Again, it occurs to me just how long it’s been since I felt this way, this kind of observance and creativity.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I look at the screen and have zero control over the grin that busts out across my face.
Ciao, bella.How are your words today?
I’ve gotten to the point where I can hear Marina’s voice when I read her texts. And the crazy part is that her accent does things to me now, right here in the street, with her nowhere near me, when I’m reading her words, and the sound is just in my head. I get a little flutter low in my body, and a quick throb between my legs reminds me that I’m alive. My brain immediately tosses me an image of the two of us kissing.
I inhale deeply and let it out slowly.
Yeah. This woman.
I type back.
Hi! Been writing like crazy but needed a break. Walking Reggie right now.
The dots bounce for a bit before her words appear.I’m nearby. Need a break from the crazy writing? A glass of wine?
And now my grin turns into a chuckle.I’m in Italy…does anybody ever say no to a glass of wine?
Never, she replies, then gives me the name of a café that I recognize, having walked past it many times in my strolls.
It’s not far from where Reggie and I are, and when I reach it, Marina is already seated at an outdoor table for two, with a glass of wine in front of her and another waiting for me at my seat.
The throb hits me again, a little harder this time.
“I could get used to this,” I say as I absently bend and kiss her cheek. I don’t even think about it, like it’s just the most natural thing to do. And it is. Something zips across her face, but it’s gone before I can get a solid read on it. I sit and make sure Reggie’s leash is secure, but there’s really no need. I’ve learned in Italy that he seems to enjoy people watching as much as I do. He plops himself down near my feet, tongue lolling from that walk and the heat, and settles in as I pull his small collapsible bowl from my bag and pour some water from my own bottle into it. Satisfied my dog is good, I focus on my date as I lift my glass, the crimson wine absolutely gorgeous to look at. “Here’s to having somebody who gets your wine for you ahead of time.”
