So, anyhow, I walked to Starbucks, laptop in hand, ready to resume blogging. I'd lost interest for awhile, what with the daily grind of life and then the feverish craft explosion. I thought it would be good therapy to start writing again. The ebook sales, although relatively small, had inspired me and I had some new ideas percolating. Funny, you'd think that with all the noise and distraction in your average coffeehouse or yogurt shop, I'd prefer to write at home, where it's quiet. Oddly, I seem to concentrate best sitting at a bistro table amid chattering masses of humanity.
I grabbed a skinny vanilla latte, triple shot, and settled into a table wedged into a corner. That's another of my idiosyncrasies. I get nervous sitting in the middle of a room. Why? I haven't a clue.
Anyway, I had finished about half my coffee and was really getting in to the zone when I noticed that someone was standing close to my table, literally at my right elbow. I glanced to the side and saw brown tweed and a couple of leather buttons staring back. Resolutely ignoring the space-encroaching person, I returned my attention back to the screen.
"Why aren't you at Pinkberry today?" The question wafted down from above.
I looked up at the most astonishing woman. Like I said, she was dressed in tweed. A tweed suit to be exact, in the style of the late 1930s, complete with a fox fur collar. I wondered how many times a day she had to lie and say "Genuine fur? Of course not! This is simply a high quality faux!"
"Excuse me?" By this time I'd lost the thread of our conversation.
"Pinkberry. The one in Santa Monica? It's where I normally see you, or did anyhow." She twirled an empty chair around and dropped into it, graceful as a feather, then leaned toward me, chin in hand.
"So, what's up with that?" She delivered that sentence in a sing-song, almost as if she were using the phrase for the first time.
I was speechless. Absolutely nonplussed. As I sat staring at this strange little woman in her veiled hat and matching gloves, I couldn't think of a thing to say. She didn't seem to notice my confusion while she fished in her alligator handbag for a moment, finally holding up a business card. It was actually a calling card, the old fashioned kind that simply has the caller's name printed on it. Whipping out a Flair pen she scribbled her phone number on the back.
"Call me." she said, "The job starts immediately."
Okay, now I got it. She was recruiting for something sketchy like pyramid-scheme fruit drink sales or soft-core porn. Been there, regretted that. I left the card lying on the table between us and said something like, yeah, sure, maybe I'll do that, you-have-a-nice-day, and turned back to my laptop, hoping she'd get the hint.
"Alexis, honestly, this is what you've been waiting for." She leaned closer and touched my hand. I recoiled as if she'd prodded it with the tip of a burning cigarette.
"How do you know my name?" I asked with all the badass indignation I could muster. This thing was definately taking a turn toward Creepytown.
Silently she pointed to the dymotape lable I had affixed to the laptop case with the silly hope that if I ever lost the damn thing someone would be kind enough to call my cell and reunite us.
She uncapped her pen and wrote an address under the phone number.
"Don't bother to call. Just show up at 11am tomorrow." Then she rose from her seat and did the oddest thing. She winked at me before turning to go. Winked at me! I couldn't decide if she were hitting on me, making fun of me, or trying to draw me into a conspiracy. Before I could figure it out, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but a calling card and the lingering scent of "My Sin" perfume.
Life had definately taken a turn, but if it was toward Creepytown or not still remained to be seen.