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“Well, I need to get back to work.” “Work?” Emily asked. “What are you working on?” “Poetry,” he answered, taking a pen from the pocket of his denim jacket. “Really? Are you a poet?” Emily asked. “Oops, sorry, I’m prying.” “That’s okay. I don’t know if I’m a poet or not, but since my operation I’ve been writing poetry and drawing. I was never interested in poetry. In fact I hated it in high school and hardly ever read books. So this is new for me.” “That’s good, that’s cool. Well, I won’t bother you. Enjoy the pie.” She glanced down at his notebook then walked away and returned to the ketchup bottles she was refilling. Occasionally she looked at Walter writing intensely, curious about what he was writing. What a strange man she thought and felt her fascination growing, then she wondered about his operation. What was that about? To Emily, he looked so healthy, his twinkly blue eyes, his ruddy complexion, his mostly dark hair turning slightly gray. She remembered the spry way he. No. I did get boned. I got almost nothing aside from a producer’s credit to put on my resume. But nobody figured on the song making any money, did they? I sure didn’t. There will be a lot more weight resting on this next deal, and one thing is for sure: Teddy Fields, his manager, and his record label will not be looking out for ol’ Jake. Nor should they. They have their own concerns. And all my planning and strategizing is one thing, but the sound of that phone will mean that the battle is joined by big and clever people. Once that happens, I’m outnumbered and outgunned. The anticipation is killing me, I wonder if they’re counting on that and waiting on purpose. It’s one-thirty. I’m pouring the last cup of coffee, and realizing I haven’t eaten since supper. In fact, I am suddenly aware that I’m fucking starving. And that’s when the phone rings. I jump to answer it and spill hot dark liquid all over my hand. For a second I try to cure the burn by waving my hand in the air and yelling.
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