I was standing in a corner of the café, chatting with two of my friends, when a deep and raspy voice sounded near my ear. “Don’t try to sit down,” he murmured as the chair near which I was standing disappeared, and him along with it. “Yes sir,” I stammered back, his voice having traveled straight down my spine and lodged, tingling, into my arms and legs…
“This is ridiculous,” I groan, tossing the notebook away across the desk as I allow my head to flop forward and bounce off of the hard surface before settling, dejectedly, with a cheek smushed against scattered pens. “It doesn’t sound like real life, I can’t seem to get this right.”
“How can it not sound like real life?” He asked calmly, used to my manic writing emotions. “This is exactly how I remember it happening. I do have to say, though, you never told me about the tingling limbs.”
“Shut up,” I moan, feeling his hands coming down to rest on my shoulders, “I didn’t want your ego to grow anymore. If we popped you and let the hot air out, you would shrink by at least 6 inches.”
He squeezed my shoulders gently before snatching up the notebook and perusing the rest of my short story outline, “Hey Goofball, why are you throwing a fit? This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever read.”
“Oh that makes me feel better about life,” I mutter caustically against the veneer of my desk and strangely, it really did.