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|As a reminder (expo) (standard:Suspense, 1630 words)|
|Author: Kinslayer||Added: Jul 29 2003||Views/Reads: 2133/1146||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Some story, Little edits, new page|
I watched as she walked up the stairs and into her apartment. She was beautiful, like my mother. I watched her turn on the lights and open the blinds. A coat was hung neatly on a hook, and she let her hair down. I watched as dark brown curls cascaded over bare shoulders and down to her breasts. It was the perfect picture. The shutter clicked as shot after shot was taken. The woman in the apartment looked this way, so I paused. Did she see me? I watched her walk over to the window. That little black dress looked so good. As it turned out she wasn't looking at me at all, but instead a cat. She had her perfect little life, perfect little apartment and perfect little cat! There was no room for me and I knew this. That's why I chose this apartment. It was small, and smelled of fixer, but it was across from her. I remember the day we met... I was an editor for a well-known publishing firm. I would sit while authors and journalists would hand me their work to revise. I liked the journalists; they understood that writing had rules. But I wish I had killed every filthy author that passed through my doors. They would excuse their poor writing as “creative choices”, there was no reasoning with them. Especially Mr. Mark Thatcher. That was his real name, he wrote under a nom de plume. Mark was the worst kind of fiction writer, a romance novelist. Writing the kind of stories that would make you sick, the kind of stories with titles like “Whisper Soft” and “Cold November.” We would bicker for hours over his poor use of syntax and it would always end with me yelling that he was a fool but the story would remain unchanged. One day, after a long afternoon of arguing with Mr. Thatcher, I left the office to find that the clouds had decided to open up and send millions of tiny drops of water plummeting to earth. I was hailing a cab when a beautiful young woman approached me. She asked if I would share the next cab. Of course I was more then willing, seeing that light blue leisure suit, holding up a folded newspaper to protect her hair from the rain. When the cab approached I held the door open, allowing myself to view her bending over to enter the car. She told the cabbie she was headed to the north end of town and although I lived in the opposite direction, I lied, saying that I lived that way too. I was nervous and could feel anxiety setting in until she started the conversation. “What do you do?” I was confused. “Do?” “For a living?” “I'm an editor.” “Oh!” she said, “For which paper?” It was a long ride to where she lived, almost twenty minutes. The entire time I explained that I wasn't a journalist but a publicist and we talked about the finer points of correct English grammar. When we arrived in front of her apartment I realized that I had not been given a name. So I asked. “Holly Coddle.” She replied and gave me one of those smiles that would melt your heart. “Have a good evening Ms. Coddle.” I said as she exited the car. “Call me Holly.” As she got up to leave I watched a book fall from her purse to the ground and splash into a puddle. The cabbie kept asking me where I wanted to go, but I ignored him, watching as she retrieved the book from the ground, I saw the cover. “Moonlight” was the title and the author was none other then Robert Judge aka, Mark Thatcher, I had worked on that book. I rolled down the window as she was walking away, “Do you like Robert Judge?” I yelled. “Of course,” she replied, “he's my favorite author.” Before she walked away she asked, “By the way, I never caught your name.” Click here to read the rest of this story (147 more lines)
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