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waiting, I had decided to fortify myself with one quick drink in preparation for my afternoon in the woods. It took a while, but I fished around in the contents of my duffel bag until I came up with the battered old flask Gibby gave me as a going away present the day we called it quits. ("Get out and stay out!" she screamed, and threw the flask at me. As usual, her aim was off, and I retrieved the flask as sort of a memento.) I rinsed it out, filled it with the B and W and plunked myself down on the edge of the bed. |
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Suddenly, the previous night and all the days preceding it began catching up with me. Three days in Chambers Bay had turned into an eternityan ugly eternity. The shoes came off real easy, and lying back across the bed seemed like the natural thing to do. |
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Maybe Elaine was right. Maybe I ought to pay homage to my mounting years and quit chasing around the countryside sifting through bizarre situations to find a story. Instead of chasing shadows, I could chase women. That's it; write romance novels. Why not? Romance from the man's point of view. Maybe it would sell. Then I suffered a good dose of instant recall and discarded the idea. E.G. Wages writing romance? Get real. Good old Elliott Grant couldn't write a romance if his life depended on it. This was the same old Elliott Grant that Gibby |
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