Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I could have owned a bookstore.
He could have owned a bar.
My bookstore would have been filled with first editions, collections which I would dust. I would have a long table by a big window where I would serve a couple of pots of coffee to a bunch of curmudgeons who would hold a writers' group at my place on Wednesday nights. They would have two ladies in the group, one a hairdresser by day a poet by night the other a published author of steamy romance novels.
On Wednesdays I would stay till nine always maintaining a certain distance from the group. I'd be at the cash register pretending to add while really listening to the assignments, the readings, the praise and the criticism. I'd take notes on the back of small white squares of register paper, put them in my purse and forget about them until months later when I would find them and use their advice in my private writing projects.
One day a week, maybe on Sundays neither of us would have to go to work. We would sleep in late on white sheets as a morning sun would warm a large room. We would nuzzle and talk and giggle and laugh. I'd make him read while I made pancakes. He'd put on black rimmed glasses and sit up in bed.
I'd come back without the food but with coffee and impatience, Whada ya' think? Whada ya' think?
He'd smile, I'm not finished.
Grateful for those who remind me of who I used to be.