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Conversation with a Stranger

"What's it like?" he asked, "What's it like being a writer?"

I wasn't sure if he wanted my truth or his. I smiled.

"Your mind must always be in this creative state. Everything is inspiration. It's amazing."

I nodded. I let him answer. He was writing the scene. Not me.

"I wanted to write. You know? I have these ideas. I just never could get them out. I can never find the time. I don't know how you do it."

My smile grew. I didn't it to slip from my face as easily has his insult had passed through his lips.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"Me? Oh, I work in insurance. Keeps me busy. Good pay," he shrugged.

I smiled again. I wanted to tell him I'd always been interested in insurance. I think he wrote those words for me, but I went off script and smiled at someone across the room. He turned. His smile disappeared for a moment, then the corners of his mouth retracted into a different kind of grin.

"A friend of yours?" he asked.

"Yes, Please excuse me."

Not waiting for a response, I stepped away, chardonnay in hand, toward another stranger with kinder eyes and a real smile.




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