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Iread dozens of them, breaking them down, analyzing their structure andtheir pacing and their artistic sensibilities. And I also read thepublished erotica we sold.And some porn stories, online.For purely research purposes only.A couple more rejection letters for my science fiction later, and itseemed like the die was cast for me.I began writing a romance novel.Two to three times a week Miriam would come into the store and ask mewhat I was working on, expecting to read science fiction, and I'd mumbleout some sort of bullshit story about nothing, avoiding herinquisitiveness. But as I've mentioned, she was relentless when shewanted to be. Finally, after weeks, she stood in front of me in herskirt and blouse and jacket and beautiful hair and make-up and heels andhosiery and demanded to know why I was avoiding her questions.I confessed to her.She reprimanded me, like a parent would scold a silly child, and thenmore or less demanded to read what I'd written so far. I didn't want. I felt a moment of envy for the man serving her. I wanted to have those green eyes flashing at me – to have that laugh responding to some comment of mine. Then I acknowledged the envy for the foolishness it was and let it fade away.I turned away and looked out the window when I saw her paying for her order. I could clearly see her reflection in the glass but this way she wouldn't see me staring at her when she turned around. I watched as she picked up the little cardboard tray with its four take-away cups held in place – always four cups – and made her way out of the cafe. From the reflection of her face in the glass, she seemed happy and relaxed as she walked past me.A cough sounded right next to the table. I looked and couldn't hide a little jump. She was standing right there, looking down at me."I know you're watching me," she said. "I could feel your eyes on me as soon as I walked into the cafe." Oh!" My friends tell me I should get a restraining order against you. You have to.
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