This sabbatical has been interesting. And certainly has led to me learning a lot of big and little lessons. It’s been harder than I thought it was going to be – harder to focus on my dream list of things I wanted to do, hard to admit to myself that I wasn’t prepared, hard to find out what my favorite restaurants are having as their special because they only update that info on their Facebook page…
But the thing is, all of these hard lessons have been good lessons to learn.
I’ve also picked up more than a little clarity around what I long for and what I need and what ingredients I am missing when it comes to actively cultivating and creating the kind of daily life I desire to lead.
More later on that – but for now, here’s the last week of snippets from my 100 Days of Fiction Project:
Though I am doing this project and some writing, I am officially on sabbatical so am not on the computer as much. Here are days four through eight.
And the Special Prompt Posted on Day 8:
No matter how similar they seem in texture, thinking that she could use the garlic press to mince a piece of turmeric was decidedly a mistake.
*Though this may be based on factual experiences, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Happy hour was a curious animal that brought out all kinds of beasties. And the thing is, it didn’t matter what bar you wandered into one an average Tuesday anywhere or in any neighborhood across the south. The cast of patrons were always the same.
There was the regular. Always in the corner spot of the bar. Everyone knew his name – be it Norm or Mark or Walter. He was a fixture, there. He drank draft beer and alternated that with the occasional shot. He knew all the bartenders and half the patrons by name.
There was the business suited woman sipping on a Merlot. She kept her iPhone in her hand and, though she looked a little lonesome, she didn’t speak to the other patrons.
The pair of happy-go-lucky guys dressed in the male version of the business casual uniform: khakis and polo shirts with company logos over the left breast, drinking beer, planning their next golf game, and razzing each other over whatever sport was in season.
And then there’s the bombshell. A beautiful woman, though not classically so. She was vibrant and alluring, yet seemed clueless to her own sexiness. She wore silky blouses and fitted tees paired with form fitting jeans and high heels, which she hooked over the bottom rung of the bar stool. Her eyes were bright and friendly, yet the most sensitive patrons saw the secrets deep within.
She pulled into the drive-through of Starbucks, her body craving a mocha. With an extra shot of espresso and extra whip cream. It had been one of those kinds of days where all she could think about was medicating the heartache with sweetness.
Ahead of her was a woman in a blue Toyota Carola with lots of curly red hair. She had one of those carrying voices that was not just loud, but sounded like she was always perky and cheerful. As the woman finished her order (an Extra Hot Caramel Macchiato and a Blueberry Scone), a giant dog with a slobbery tongue stuck his head out the passenger window. It was a Bernese Mountain Dog and he was grinning.
Dogs in cars always looked so happy. She longed to feel joy -or anything – that strongly again. Briefly she wondered if getting a big old dog was the answer to experiencing that deep sense of happiness.
But life was just too complicated to add a dog.