Who Understands Those Writers?

Story Submitted by Tom:

Melinda, in her profile, had written that she loved to write.  I don't use a lot of the creativity that I think I once had, but I admire those who do, and so I wrote her a message to ask her about her work.

She came across as very articulate and bright, and so I asked her out to dinner.  She said that she had to move some things around but that she could "fit me into her schedule."

I took her to a nice restaurant, and not long after we sat down, she pulled out a small red journal and a gold pen and wrote a few sentences.  I joked, "Did I say something memorable?"

She said, "No, but I'm writing about you."

"Something good, I hope."

No response.  Okay, then.  She added a bit more to her journal, then put it away.  I wasn't sure what to say, so I asked, "Is that where you write your ideas?"

She pulled it out again and wrote another couple of sentences, then put it away again.  I asked her, "Are you writing something good?"

She said, "Everything I write is something good."

I asked, "Do you know what you want to order?"

She glanced through the menu, stared at it, looked up at me, stared back down at the menu, then pulled out her journal again.  She wrote furiously.  The waitress came by to take our orders.  Without looking up, Melinda ordered a salad.  The waitress took our menus and left.

Melinda, still writing, said, "Most people have to refer back to their menus when their waiters come, in order to remember what they wanted to order.  Me?  I memorized it.  Saved time.  Smart."

I asked, "In general, what have you written?"

She replied, "This journal."

No shit.  "What else?" I asked.

She paused before replying, "Other journals.  I write a lot.  Lots of poetry."

Trying to show an interest, even if it was waning, I said, "I'd love to read some, if you'd ever like to share it."

She didn't respond, but she kept writing.  In fact, she didn't stop writing until the food came.  I asked her mostly superficial questions, most of which she answered brusquely or didn't answer at all.

When the food arrived, she put her journal on the table and continued to write, but put an arm in front of it in order to block me from viewing her Nobel Prize-winning literature.  She then looked at her food, then up at me, and frowned.

She said, "I want to eat, but I also don't want you to see what I'm writing.  Could you maybe eat while facing away from me?  I'd really appreciate it."

I asked, "Did I kind of inconvenience you by asking you out on a date, tonight?  Because I kind of feel like I've done that."

She said, "Kind of, yeah, but it's not a big deal.  I forgive you, but yeah, please face the other way.  Nothing personal."

I flagged the waitress down and asked for a box and the check.  Melinda watched me, spellbound, as I paid for my meal, pushed the check in her direction, stood up, and left with my food, all without saying a word.  If that scene ever makes it into one of her novels, then I'll be demanding royalties like you wouldn't believe.