The whole gang has gone to LA for Spring Break. They received an invitation to visit another MFA program, to come down and hang out. This wasn’t reciprocal. No one’s coming to the Midwest for any reason, and certainly not to hang out.
So this writer is stuck at home, and can’t report on what Emily and Derek are doing. I can only imagine. Since I’m good at this, let’s take a look.
She stepped inside and closed her door quickly. Too quickly, the slam echoing down the corridor. She’d spotted a tiny gecko, clinging to the wall. No one wants that in their room.
Unfortunately, Emily noted a half-inch space between door and carpet. If that thing was coming in, it was coming in.
Should she ring the front desk? Nah, the surfer-dude with his feet up would do nothing about the gecko, then come on to her. After a day of seminars and roundtables, everyone in California was beginning to look the same. Torporous, bored, with a jigger of lechery.
The weather was nice. Sunny, seventy, the students took many breaks, ambling about the campus. She had looked forward to spending time with Derek. Instead, he chased one prof after another, anxious to develop “connections”. What a dope.
The Minnesota crowd had dinner at a long table in Norm’s. Cheapskates to the core, they were maximizing their per diem. Actually it was a pleasant experience, the diner brightly lit, clean and orderly, like a movie set, with a long gleaming counter and efficient staff in black pants and identical smocks. Emily had eggs Benedict while Derek chatted up waitresses from the other end of the table.
As they ate evening descended. Beyond spotless windows a final orange glow matched Norm’s retro movie-ready sign. Dark palms painted the sky. Emily kept waiting for Jake Gyllenhaal to walk in. He didn’t.
The party broke up early. They were tired. But mostly, they were Midwesterners. Emily sat on her bed. She thought to herself, I have the death loneliness that comes at the end of every day wasted in your life. Then remembered that was Hemingway. She hated Hemingway, but admired his work. That’s how you knew she was a good writer.
She sat at a little table and opened her laptop. Just a sentence, just a word and this feeling will go away. Her fingers rattled the keyboard. The man spoke no English. He didn’t have to. His slender, manicured hand took her’s, raising the palm to his lips. His eyes were black, black as the devil’s handkerchief…
A light tap sounded at the door. Emily closed her laptop. Better not be the night manager.
“Who is it?” She peered through the peephole. It was Derek, standing in swim trunks, with a towel around his neck. Tall, blond and angular, he looked like a high plains jack rabbit.
“It’s Derek. I was wondering if you want to go for a dip.”
“A dip?”
“There’s no one in the pool.” He paused. “And the lights are low.” He knew she was embarrassed, fretful of her short stature, heavy hips and unruly hair. Emily was no Dorothy Lamour.
Who the hell is Dorothy Lamour?
“That’s nice of you Derek, except, except.”
“Except what?”
She didn’t tell him. She didn’t tell him she brought no swim suit. An idea formed, almost unbidden. She could follow him down to the pool wearing a robe, slipping naked into the water almost before he knew what was happening…
And here, readers, is where I end my imaginings. It’s twenty degrees outside, but getting a little hot in here.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com