I Write Romances, Not Live Them

Chapter 8

 “A broken heart bleeds tears.” -Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

As I impatiently waited for my printer to finish off the second copy of the story I had written the night before, I tapped my foot on the floor in annoyance. The thin, dank, carpet that covered my floor only muffled the sound slightly, and it itself was annoying me. But I couldn't stop, I was the picture of impatience as the second copy of page twenty finally came out I the printer. Sounds like a whale being strangled came from it, I half expected to see smoke rise out.

I gave a satisfied look to the warm pages I held in my hands, twenty pages front and back, one and a half spacing and still smelling if mechanical ink. The smell was welcoming. I used to always have to print my stories off for Madge, she preferred editing the old fashioned way with a pen, and then would go back and correct them electronically. It was just one of those things that made Madge, Madge.

After stapling my two copies together, I briskly walked to the bathroom and checked my appearance in the mirror.

I pushed and pulled at my matted hair, but alas, it really was just shaped like that. I'm sure that most girls wouldn't leave the house the way I was looking. My long sleeve white V-Neck was wrinkled, my scarf contained now amounts of glitter or sparkly things, just striped with different colors. The only thing that did look fashionable about me was the dark denim skinny jeans I wore. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror, swiping my glasses off my face and rubbing them clean. Yep. I still looked the same.

There was no use dwelling on myself, so I grabbed my bag, gingerly putting Lappie inside, kissing my hand and then resting it in her. And then I was out the door, taking the flight of stairs down and avoiding the lobby. The building manager there was always a bit too friendly and tended to be a busy-body. Most occupants avoided the lobby, and I occasionally met a few on the back stairwell. We would simply nod to each other, maybe a friendly hello. We didn't tend to socialize, not like I'm complaining.

I was met with the brisk air from outside and I tightened my arms around myself and curled my fingered around my sleeves, balling them up for warmth. It really wasn't that chilly outside, I just get cold easily. I quickened my pace towards the subway entrance, taking the stairs down quickly as I entered the bustling underground. I was in time for he early train, and I boarded it, hoping to find a seat where I could sit in peace without questionable smells or rough tourists.

Like a racecar slamming into a giant brick wall, the nerves hit me. I could feel my fingers shaking as I clutched onto the strap of my bag like a mother squeezes a hand during childbirth. It was almost as bad as when I released my last book. I faintly remember being curled into the fetal position on my couch as I waited for the critics' reviews. I don't know what it is about people, but it seems to me that the desire to be accepted is hard wired into us. Like any of our basic needs like food, shelter, and water, we all had this pull in the pit of our stomachs that made us want to be part of something. And mine was pulling so strong I felt like I was about to throw up. If Elliot didn't like my new story, he would be pushing me towards a downhill spiral ending in piles if chocolate and a Harry Potter Marathon. If only he realized how much the next hour would mean to me.