Saturday, July 11, 2009

Scrambled eggs

the middle of a sentence, she said. Her fork combing scrambled eggs, like she did, her face locked in frown. Do you have to write while we talk, she said. Yes, I said, stopping to eat a cigar-length French fry. I write, this is what I do. But your stories. Look, I said, about that middle of the sentence thing—it’s afternoon and you’re eating breakfast. And? Same principle, sort of, but more like, you took too long to start your sentence, more than half a page. It’s perfectly acceptable to eat breakfast foods in the middle of the—she stopped, grabbed my writing journal, looked at it. You’re writing this down? Well, not if you’re going to take it from me. She flipped through the book, skimmed passages, face reflecting horror. She didn’t have an appreciation, she took it too seriously. Closed it, tossed it at me, killing four fries. This relationship is me spinning circles around a stationary insane person going nowhere, she said. I almost opened the book to write but held my hands together. I know you’re not writing but memorizing, and she was right. She stood, dropped money on the table. When you tell this story, in your oh-so-clever way, do me a favor, don’t start in

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