Katherine
Writer’s block.
I’ve heard about it. But for all the years I struggled to become a published writer and even after my first book sold, I was never at a loss for words. Until now. They say this happens after you’ve had a bestseller.
Well, I’m not only blocked, I’m paralyzed, motionless, incapable of putting one word next to another.
My agent called today. Just like every other day for the last two weeks. I’m behind with the first draft. I’ve sent every call to voice mail. I just can’t face her.
“Katherine, I know you’re listening to these. At least send me a text. Let me know you’re alive.” The messages are beginning to sound frantic. But I still can’t respond.
What would I tell her? That I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? That I don’t have a first chapter, let alone a first draft.
No, it’s better for everyone concerned that I let it go to voice mail.
Maybe she’ll get the hint, and tell the publishers I’m dead, or at the very least I’m in a coma.
That’s the bad news.
The good news is, Dale is coming home tonight and I’m planning on holding on to all six feet, two inches of his deliciousness. His light-green eyes pull me in every time. And tonight will be no exception.
Besides, I have writer’s block. And I personally know of no better way to unstick the flows than to, well… sometimes a girl just needs a good release…or two…or three.
My best friend Robin thinks I should leave him.
Robin and I have been bffs since forever. Well, actually since we were both kicked out of Mr. Stubbin's ninth grade science class for giggling uncontrollably while he explained the reproductive system of a frog. We just couldn’t image kissing a frog no matter what they say in fairy tales.
Anyway, from that day in detention until now, we’ve been besties, and pretty much agreed on everything.
Except when it comes to Dale.
She called the other day and when I told her he was out of town, she made some cryptic comment about him staying away longer. I didn’t respond so she took it as a sign to launch into one of her infamous diatribes.
“Look, girl. I’ve held my tongue for two years. But you’ve gone past my threshold of watching what is surely going to be a future train wreck. He’s not the one. He’s a player. He thinks the world is in love with him. And he’s never going to ask you to marry him.”
Robin was never one to mince words. But I couldn’t agree on this.
“Dale is the guy I want to spend my life with,” I said, sounding just a tad too whiney. “I want to be married to him. I want children, the seven-thousand-square-foot loft in SoHo. I want the whole thing.”
Robin just sighed. Loudly.
Yes, I know Dale could be arrogant. But his attributes outweighed his arrogance. As the owner of the hottest gallery in New York, a little haughtiness is sometimes necessary. It's gotten us on everyone’s opening night guest list and the best tables at all the must-be-seen-in restaurants.
Okay, so the sex isn’t completely mind-blowing. But after two years, you’re likely to hit a bit of a dry spell. Like my writing.
But tonight’s going to be different. It’s a surprise. Dinner and a show.
Oh, and I’m the show.
His plane lands at seven and he’ll be home by eight. Just enough time for me to get to his apartment, cook his favorite steak dinner, open a bottle of red, get the candles going and slip into that barely-there slip I got at La Perla. A little red-laced thingy that will reignite the spark. And hopefully spur my creative juices. A girl can hope, can’t she?
Checking to make sure I have everything, including those three-inch red numbers I couldn't say no to at Manolo Blanik’s last month–yet another ding in my book advance money–I hail a taxi and within 20 minutes I'm at Dale's on Christopher Street. I'm humming in all the right places as I waltz into the loft.
Except for the bedroom, the place has no other doors. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the north wall offer a spectacular view of the Hudson. Putting the groceries on the kitchen island, I make my way to the windows to take in the last rays of a most remarkable sunset.
I've always thought the one disadvantage to this ridiculously beautiful space is the constant drone of city traffic below. Only tonight, I’m not hearing traffic. I’m hearing…wait, could that be…
“Well shit.” I say loud enough to be heard over the moaning.
Stomping over, I fling open the bedroom door.
What’s behind it? Dale’s naked butt.
It’s not as if I haven’t seen his bare ass before. It’s just that I’ve never seen it from this angle, banging back and forth like a hammer on a stubborn nail.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dale looks over his shoulder and I can see he’s searching for something to say.
I can’t believe it. His first reaction isn’t to immediately stop what he’s doing with a woman whose every body part has been enhanced.
From the dyed platinum hair (top and bottom), to the implanted ginormous breasts. And I will bet large sums of money that flat stomach is the result of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“We are sooo done!” I say, in my most outraged voice. In fact, I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m stunned.
Stunned because he’s with another woman. Stunned because Robin was right, he had no plans to marry me. Stunned because he hurt me.
Really hurt me.
“Hey, baby. Don’t go,” Dale calls out.
I’m moving as fast as I can, gathering up my stuff as I go. There is no way I’m leaving behind a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollars’ worth of steaks for this asshole.
As I pack up, Dale is hopping up and down on one foot, trying to get his other leg into his trousers, while attempting to explain that this little romp means nothing.
“We met on the plane, baby,” hop, hop, hop. “ It's just sex.”
I, of course, ignore all his pleas and force myself to hold back the tears. With my arms full, I head for the front door.
“Come on, baby, you’re my world.”
“Well then, from now on your world will be empty!”
Throwing his keys at him, I walk out.