The English Lit Professor, Mrs. Pamela Club, called her after class to have a chat with her on something very important.
"Arianne, here's this amazing opportunity you could use up to let the world read your writings," she said, after having told her about her wish to see Arianne taking up the internship at the Seattle Independent Publishing, as a columnist.
"You really think it's a good idea? With the finals on my head and the projects and assignments and everything?"
"Of course it's a wonderful idea. I know you'd have no truck with English Literature in future. You want to go master your Biology. But, what if this works? This could, right? You could probably see things in a different way. Maybe, you'd discover that writing is actually your thing."
Arianne wasn't even in a mood of giving it a shot. She didn't want another burden. Another place to go, another work, new people to work with. She was already too tired. She just wanted to get through finals.
"I'm giving you the day. You call me tonight. Think of it," the professor said again, "I really want you to do it. This could be great, you know."
As she turned to leave for the staff room, Arianne stopped her. "Ma'am," she called and when she turned, said, "I'll do it. You were right. It's a great opportunity."
She thought of it for the rest of the day. In her Biology practical classes even, she was caught off-guard by Mrs. Rodriguez for not paying attention to the experiment. This was the first time this had happened.
True, she always wanted everyone to know about her writings, and wanted people to read and appreciate the stories she wrote. But, her ones were stuck only in her diaries and a few on the writer's site, Wattpad. Many people, though, got to know about her talent when her first article got published in the college monthly magazine. She had written about the relationship between a teacher and a student being much more than just grades and assignments. Metaphors and ironies and other literary devices were never her trademarks. She wrote simple, yet she wrote effective.
Mrs. Club demanded her articles for the next few months, but when she couldn't turn up with one a month, she was excused. "You're always welcome to submit, Arianne," she had told, "people love your writings. They will wait anyway."
Maybe, it wasn't that bad an idea to join the SIP as an intern. It would give her some time to do something she really enjoyed doing. She'd be able to meet new like-minded people, maybe. It would be a good thing, after all, she noticed her mind changing.
"Ira," she talked to him over dinner about the internship, "do you know where Seattle Independent Publishing office is?"
He frowned, "why'd you need it?"
"I'm gonna do an internship there. For the next few months. I need to go there tomorrow. I forgot to pick up the address from my professor and her phone is unavailable. If you could tell me..."
"You're doing an internship? There?"
"Yes."
"What kind? It's a publishing house."
"As a columnist."
"Columnist? You write? You never...told me." He frowned again.
She smiled at him with a teenage girl kind of blush and said, "I don't blow my own trumpet, you know."
He smiled back. "What do you write?"
"I'm not a poet, like you. I write stories and articles."
"Stories?"
"Love stories. Hypothetically perfect love stories that have a minus 80% chance of happening in real."
"And the articles?" He smiled.
"For the college monthly magazine."
"You don't bring it home?"
"I do."
"You never showed me. C'mon, get up. Go and get the latest one you wrote."
"You're a child!" Arianne rolled her eyes and got up from the table. Avoiding Arira, who peacefully enjoyed her milk meal, she went into her room and brought back the September issue of the magazine. She struggled with one hand to find her page and put it in front of him for him to read.
"Why there should be secret places in college where there would be no CCTV cameras? That's your topic?"
"Yes," she laughed out.
"Your professors give you the topic?"
"No, I write whatever I please. I don't know about the others who write pieces. But, I have the liberty."
After dinner, as he washed the dishes, she sat on the kitchen bar and read out the article to him. "Convincing," he commented, "really convincing. And, where are the 'hypothetically perfect love stories'?"
"No, not them! They are really useless. Trust me."
"I'll get to that. Where are they? You have them?"
She rolled her eyes again. "They are on Wattpad. You know, the writer's site."
"You wrote a story on lesbianism?" he asked as he visited her profile on Wattpad.
"Yes. Why, you don't support homosexual love?"
"I don't know," he seemed to ponder over it for a while, "we've always made fun of them in school, you know. Like, calling them gay and searching up their bags for some gay article, and then making fun about that. I've never really seen them in any different or sympathetic manner."
"Then, take the heed of reading my story. I don't know if it will work on your psyche, but it has convinced many people I know."
"Okay, I'll read it."
She was about to get up from his bed and go into her room, when she suddenly remembered again, "hey! You didn't tell me about the SIP office?"
"Oh! Don't worry, I'll take you."
"No, that's okay. I can go there myself."
"We can carpool if we're going to the same place."
"Same place?" She hitched up her eyebrow.
"Yes, the SIP office is the 13th floor of the Grey House. Mrs. Anastasia Grey runs it. So, I can take you, really."
"Oh, I didn't know. Okay, then we can go together."
"Bye, darling," Arianne patted Arira's head as the two were to leave for the day together. The kitten purred and licked her finger with her little tongue. She smiled at her and checked the places where she had kept the small bowls of milk and little raw fish for her to feed on through the day, and the places she had kept paper for her to excrete.
"You know," she said as she waited for the elevator with him, "some day, she's going to spill the milk all over the carpet." "That's okay," he said, not paying any heed to the complaint, "she's a baby. She can do that. I'm sure she won't do it on purpose."
She watched him from the corner of her eye for a while and asked, "you never told me you liked cats." "I never did," he said, following her into the elevator, "but Arira is different. She's the cutest being I ever saw."
Elevators were always awkward. The enclosed area, the propinquity, the absence of anyone else, the rise of adrenaline in their capillaries! They could feel it. Feel the environment, the cathexis, the libidinal attraction, all charging up to the surface. Forcing them to not be able to utter a word, not look at one another, not move an inch away or closer, as if in stable equilibrium. Forcing her to take her own lip into her own mouth and, even though she didn't much like the taste of her gloss, lick it up like he would have if they were to kiss. Forcing him to clasp his bag's handle, wanting to similarly clasp her in his arms.
It was raining cats and dogs in Seattle. "If you be done early," Ira said as they took another elevator from the underground parking space at Grey House, "meet me before you go. If it rains, you'll take my car. I'll be in the 17th floor." "See," she said, trying to subdue her arousal again, "this is the reason I wanted to bring my car."
He smirked down at her, "this is not the reason."
Quite fortunately for her, few office people in crisp shirts and suits, just like Ira, got into the elevator right at the first floor. The presence of others helped her curb her desires deep under her skin. "Are you nervous?" he asked as he saw her fidgeting with the file she had put her articles and the college magazines in.
"A little," she said, gesturing with her fingers.
"Don't be," he said, "you deserve this. They'll see it. Just be calm and cool and don't panic. This isn't for a job. Just an internship."
"I know. But, I've to save my professor's name and grace. She like...bets on me."
"All the best," he waved to her as she got off the elevator at the 13th floor and the doors slowly closed up and separated them.
She turned around and blowing a sigh out, reached out for the handle of the door right beside the lift door, that said, 'Seattle Independent Publishing'. Suddenly, a man dressed in a black suit appeared from nowhere and stopped her. "Your ID, please?" he said in a heavy tone.
"Umm..." she stammered, "what ID?"
"You don't work here?"
"No," she smiled politely, "I came here for the internship, Uncle." Uncle! She was about to sorry for calling him an uncle when he spoke again.
"I see. Which college?"
"WSU!"
"You've an ID card from there?"
"Yes," she said and took it out from her file to show it to him. He checked it and handing it back, held the door open for her, "look for the red table, Miss."
As she went in, all her premonitions about a publishing house office went into vain. She had thought of it to be a very clinical and modest and elegant looking office. Especially, when she heard from Ira about its being a part of the Grey House, she imagined it could be nothing but Grey-ish : official, taciturn and maybe, a bit boring.
But, SIP was nothing of that sort. "Wow," she murmured as she turned to look around. Books, books, everywhere!
The hues on the walls took her breath away. Red, yellow, blue, green, orange, violet, chocolate - there were streaks of almost every possible color. Mobile ladders rested on the walls that could be moved along the breadth of the walls on wheels and led to the book shelves that were placed in the middle of the walls.
Between the shelves were written in pretty convincing fonts, quotes from various books and lines of poems. On the ground of the huge room were tables, again of various colors, and around them sat people on chairs, working. Talking, chatting, sipping at soft drinks or coffee or tea and working. Scribbling in notebooks, reading, drawing or just sitting, looking away from everyone and thinking.
It was a place, she knew just at first sight she'd love to work at. The environment, she felt, was very rich with imaginative and creative ideas and power. It suddenly made her feel very at home. As she looked around, she forgot she had to look for a red table.
"Hello?" a guy, probably of her age, suddenly appeared behind her as she tried taking a book out from a shelf. "Hi," she turned immediately. "Looking for something?" he asked, moving his hands with a seemingly heavy camera hanging from his neck.
"Oh yes, a red table!"
The guy ran his eyes over her for a while before he said again, "are you here for an internship?"
"Yes," she followed him as he motioned her to.
"What? A writer you are?"
"Sort of, you could say."
"Call me Nick. You'll see me often. I click photos. Not an internship, I make a living, you see."
"Okay," she said as they finally reached a red desk, "call me Arianne. Nice to meet you."
The red desk was already surrounded by people - many people - of her age. She presumed the internship offer didn't go to just WSU. As she took a stool and sat, a man, in a shirt, tie and coat and sweatpants appeared at the table. Arianne could not miss the sweatpants!
"Interns," he called out, a pencil stuck behind his ear, "welcome to SIP. We call it Sip, you know, like sipping coffee. Anyway, jokes apart! I'm going to supervise you, as you can see. Don't go by my pants. I'm quite an intelligent man. You'll see. Hey, that rhymed!
"Okay, so, who am I? I'm not John Keats, neither am I Adolf Hitler, nor am I Mr. Obama nor am I Justin Timberlake. I'm Sean Ken, a columnist for...Sip. And, for the next couple of months, you'll learn from me some tips and ideas about being a good columnist yourself. Let's go for introductions first. Please, let's start with you, young man."
He pointed at the guy at the furthest corner and, as he started, Arianne seemed to get her nerves again. Why talking? They could just ask her to write something and she'd have blown off the 20-floored building with her words. But, talking! She always got mixed up with her words when asked to talk.
"Hi," she waved her fingers as her turn came, her cheeks going scarlet, "I'm Arianne from Miami." She tried not copying the others, "I'm majoring in Biology at the Washington State University."
"Biology?" Sean Ken exclaimed, "you sure you're supposed to be here?" with a little laugh.
"Yes, Mr. Ken, I came here for the columnist internship," she tried sounding cool. Just an internship! Not a job!
"What, you got bored with your science?"
"Nothing to do with that, Sir. Umm...English Lit is on my minor list. And, my professor wanted me to do it. So, I came."
"Where are you from again? Which college?"
"Washington State University."
"Anyone else from WSU? Any English major student?" he called out, expecting to see a few hands going up from the ones who hadn't introduced themselves yet. But none went up. "None? Oh, you must be pretty special then?"
Arianne, suddenly feeling smarter and more confident, touched the neck of her top and said, "bad I don't have a collar to hitch up."
The supervisor smiled, "Mrs. Grey is an alumni of WSU. I'm sure she'd like to meet you."
As the introductions were over, Sean Ken clapped his hands and said, "before I give you lessons, I'd like you people to show me some of your skills. What I'll do is I'll give you papers - plenty of them - and an hour of time. And, the liberty of choosing your own topic. And, after an hour, I'll collect the papers to read what you wrote. May take some time and in that time, Mrs. Grey would like you all to take the heed of meeting her one by one. She calls it the 'Quality Time'. Anyway, papers!"
Nick, the photographer, arrived again with a bunch of single-ruled papers and put it on the desk. His camera, that still hung from his neck, hit the desk hard as he did that and, for a second, it felt like a bang on Arianne's heart. How could a professional photographer handle his camera that way!
"Here," Sean took her attention again, "interns, your papers. Remember, one hour! Write on something you think should be written on. Anything! Some descriptive experience, some shocking event happened to you, some nirvana you've achieved, something you want people to change their minds about. Anything! Just make it read worth a column. Make it that good! And, you have your time starting now! Good luck!"
Arianne kept sitting for a while as she noticed the others start to scrib automatically as they found the papers. Like they knew what they wanted to write at once. She looked away and around. The environment was surely inducive of ideas and provocative of thoughts. But, she could not think of what she wanted to write about.
Some descriptive experience!
Some shocking event!
Some nirvana!
Something people should change their minds about!
Yes! Yes!
She found it. And, as she put the paper on the table and touched the top left corner with her pencil, words started oozing out of it like latex from a wound on a tree.
She started later but she finished early.
When Sean Ken came back to the red desk, seeing her sitting idly just like she was when he left, surprised him. "What, you didn't write anything?" he asked.
"Yes, I did," she said and handed him the papers she had used.
"Good," he said, not even looking at what she wrote on, "you'll be the last one I'll call for the Quality Time. Make yourself busy for a while, young lady. You could read books, if you want."
"Okay," she said, and did walk away from the red table to get hold of the book she had seen when she first came in.
It was a pain in the butt to find that shelf again, where she met Nick. She tried searching the book in every shelf she came across, but it just seemed lost, like disappeared into a black hole. The office seemed like a snarl. And, she loved it.
As she ran her fingers over the books on a shelf, beside which one of the mobile ladders were kept, a sudden motion deterred her from her hunt of the book. She stood back up and involuntarily took a step backwards as Nick came down from the ladder.
"Hello," he said again as he jumped off the last step, "looking for something?"
"Yes," she said, noticing his camera still hanging from his neck, "do you remember where we met the first time?"
"You're surely a writer! Making that simple statement sound so freaking romantic!"
"It wasn't meant to be romantic!" Arianne rolled her eyes at the short blonde and turned to look for the shelf herself. "Hey," he called out, "I was just tryna be funny. I'll help you find it."
They soon found the shelf and the book she was looking for. An anthology it was, of European poets. Keats, Wordsworth, Thomas Hardy, William Henley, the Bronté sisters and many more. "Wow," she murmured as she turned to 'Invictus' by Henley. Going through her favorite poem once, she looked back at the covering. A sketch of medieval England. Tiny horse drawn carts, driven by men wearing accentuated hats, along roads with typical London-ish streetlights, phone booths and bevy of women in English gowns and umbrellas, on either sides.
As her eyes navigated and adored the drawing, withouten her observance, a woman came in and stood in front of her for a long time. "Have you ever been to London?" she finally asked, making her jump in fright.
"Oh," Arianne looked up and recognized the woman immediately, "Mrs. Grey! Hello!"
"Hello, Miss Daveson!"
She looked at the gorgeous woman - all fair, tall, elegant, smart, sophisticated, with long, straight brown hair, and the bluest of all blue eyes. She liked her immediately as she smiled out and pointing at the anthology in her hand, asked, "have you ever been to London?"
"No," she smiled back, noticing Sean Ken standing a bit away and watching them, "I've never gone out of USA."
"You wanna go?"
"Yes, I'd love to."
"England?"
"The whole of Europe. France, Germany, Spain, Vienna, Greece."
"Wonderful places they are. Come, let's have a chat in my cabin. You like tea or coffee?"
"Coffee. But, tea if we're gonna talk about Europe and England. Or, nothing if it's gonna be a boss-intern interview."
Anastasia Grey turned back and smiled at her once and called out, "Nick," and as he came, said, "could you please arrange for two cups of English Breakfast Tea for Miss Daveson and myself?"
As they walked past the red desk the interns had been sitting at, Arianne noticed that most of the interns were back at place. Probably, all. And, some were even packing to leave.
Arianne wondered if Mrs. Grey went up to everyone like that!
Past that table, they took a turn and went through a narrow corridor. The walls, half-painted, seemed to be incomplete, with work in progress as paint tools lay unattended in front of them.
Another door on her left and Arianne was left flabbergasted again. Similar were the walls, like the other room but this room looked even more pictorial. In place of book shelves and lines from books and poems, on the walls of this room were paintings and photography. And, graffiti! Just like the other room was a writer's block of inspiration, this was of an artist.
And, artists did reside in the room. Everywhere were put up canvases and in front of them, stood artists, looking intense with their brushes and palettes and sprays and painting. The sight reminded her of Wynwood. "Ira'd love this," she softly murmured to herself and looked up at Anastasia who regarded her with utter curiosity.
Anastasia's cabin was too nicely decorated as well. One could not miss the sweet dreamcatcher at her door, that was devoid of doors or curtains. Her papers and other stuff on the table were arranged in a very disciplined manner, making everything look very sophisticated.
Though there were chairs at the table, Arianne noticed Anastasia Grey walking her to the couch and they sat down. Beside each other, as if getting ready for a best friend chat.
"First of all," Mrs. Grey spoke first, "call me Ana."
"Call me...Arin."
"Okay, Arin, so...tell me, what makes you want to go to Europe?"
She gave off a little laugh. "What doesn't? Europe is an abode of...of cultures - music, dance, art, poetry. And, the beautiful landscapes. All I've seen is on pictures and read in the novels and poems. I think after having read so much about a place, I've an indubitable responsibility to visit that place."
"What's in your file?" Ana pointed at the blue clear file she was carrying.
"This...my professor advised me to carry samples of my articles and reports I've written all these years."
"Oh, let me see. And, that reminds me, Sean said you're a Biology major?"
"Yes," she took out the magazines and handed it over to her.
"But, then, you're so good with your words, it's only you your professor sent to represent a college like WSU?"
"Umm...I'll take that as a compliment, Ana!"
"Sure," she said, flipping open to the page she had flapped the right corner of. It was the September issue again and she too, like Ira, laughed out at the topic. "Who's your professor? Mrs. Club?"
"Yes. You know her?"
"Of course. I was in the same college. She was my professor too. You know, the most beautiful and sophisticated woman I've ever come across. She gave you this topic?"
"No, she gave me the freedom of choice to write on any topic I want."
"That lady!" She smiled and read through the article. "You know," she started as she finished it and went over to the pre-summer issue, "as I was calling in the other interns and there was noone coming from my college, I was beyond horrified. I called in Sean and asked him about it. He told me there was one and that he thought you're terribly talented. And, then, I read your article. The one you wrote here. And, I knew he was right."
"You liked it?"
"I loved it. Why else do you think I'd personally go and walk you to my office and offer you my favorite tea?"
They sat in silence again as Ana read the other issue. Nick came in with another guy who brought the tea. And, Arin noticed he still had his camera and, as usual, he wasn't holding it, nor paying attention to its presence.
"Help yourself," Ana said, picking up a saucer and a cup. She followed her and put her bag in. As she sipped, she knew why it was Anastasia's favorite. "Wow," she said, "I think I'm gonna buy this for home?"
"I'll tell you where you'll get the best ones from...that too at a cheaper rate."
She went back into reading one more article. "Arin, you're an extremely talented writer. Why haven't we met earlier?"
Arin blushed.
"Tell me, why did you write today's article on lesbianism? Or, homosexuality, in general? Are you yourself inclined towards women?"
"No," she smiled politely, "I'm not. But, I've had a friend who was."
"You had?"
"Yes. She couldn't live a long life."
"Why?"
"Successful in suicidal attempt! She was pressurized by her parents to change. And, the girl she loved, left her because she thought it would never work out. She tried sustaining in life. But, we, her friends, could see it was beyond her limit of tolerance."
"I liked the fact that you wrote that, no matter how many laws are passed, it won't change people's minds unless they themselves want to. I take it that you feel very strongly about this matter?"
"Yes, I..." she was paused as she spoke by her phone vibrating in her pocket, "excuse me, Ana." It was Ira. She picked it up as Anastasia nodded her to and whispered, "I'll call you back, Ira," and hung up.
"Boyfriend?"
Arianne sighed and shook her head. "No, not boyfriend."
"But..." Ana gave her an inquisitive smile.
"But what?"
"You like him?"
"Ana! You're going to be my boss!"
"Not your boss! You're an intern. It's a pity you won't work here. Tell me, you like him? C'mon, girl!"
"I'm...in love with him."
"And, he?"
"He loves someone else."
"He's lying. Why would he call if he doesn't care and love? He knows you've your first day at the internship, right?"
"Yes, of course."
"So, he called to see how it went or where you are?"
"No, Ana! He called because I was supposed to go up to meet him before I leave."
"Go up?"
"Yes, he works here. He's a computer engineer."
"Oh, so did you agree to do the internship so you could meet him whenever you come?"
"No," she laughed out, "I see him every day. Every night. All the time."
"You're neighbors?"
"We live together."
"Oh, you live together and he's not your boyfriend? You're not gonna fool me. My husband and I own this place."
Arin giggled. She had not thought the internship would turn out to be such a nice experience. She had not thought meeting Anastasia Grey would be such a good thing. "Ana, look, let me tell you what happened."
She described to her what had happened that made her shift and start living with Ira. They chatted even after that for a long time, before they decided they should leave some to talk again when they meet. Anastasia gave Arianne her number and said, "you're the first one I'm giving my number to. We should chat and I'm serious on this." "Me too," she replied.
As she walked out of the door of SIP, Arin noticed she was a changed person from when she had entered the office. She was a pretty self-conscious girl before, afraid to show up her talents, shy and self-contained. And, Anastasia Grey had completely changed her perspective about herself. She felt like she was the elder sister she never had. She definitely wanted to see her and talk to her again.
She met the man again in the lift, whom she had called uncle. She smiled as she entered the elevator and he simply nodded his head.
"Ground floor or parking lot?" he asked, his grave voice sounding like a gnarled throat disease.
"17th floor." She pointed her index finger upwards.
"Business there?" he asked, pressing the button for the 17th floor.
"Just to say hello to a friend." She wondered if the man was over-curious or maybe, it was his job to ask questions to everyone and leave no loopholes for any terroristic person or activities.
Another man, at the door to the office of the engineers, asked for her ID again. "Will this do?" she showed him the card from WSU. "You don't work here?" he asked the same question.
"No," she answered, "had an internship at SIP. Just wanted to visit a friend before leaving."
"You need a visitor's card for that."
"Or else?"
"Or else I wouldn't be able to allow you inside, Miss."
"Please, I'll take just 10 minutes, hardly."
"I'm sorry, Miss. There's nothing I can do."
He seemed resolute and bound to the systems of the office. As Arianne stood and wondered whether to call Ira and ask him to come out, the elevator door opened and the man she had met earlier came out again.
Before she could ask him anything, he produced a plastic-wrapped thing to the other man and asked him to let her go. "Miss, you can go inside," the second man said. She turned and, even if she didn't know what that small thing was, she smiled and said, "thank you," to her Uncle and went into the office.
She looked around a bit and, after having asked a woman about Ira Armstrong, was shown the way to a cabin immediately. She proceeded towards it but the sight of Ira inside the cabin took her breath away.
As she noticed, the glass door of his cabin even had his name on it. It showed how high-paid an employee he was. And, beyond the glass door was the man she loved. She saw he had taken off his coat that rested around his chair and had the sleeves of his creaseless blue shirt folded up till his elbows.
She had never seen him that way before. She had seen him sitting with office work at home though, before, and had felt his dedication to his work then. But, now, as she stared at him through the amorphously solid door she felt herself. Felt herself drawing to him, attracted to him. His forehead, etched with confidence and concentration, his eyes, moving over the screen of his computer, his jaws clench and tight, as he kept typing...everything about him exuded a different sort of sexuality.
He was a God, manna from Heaven for her. Even if he politely held her hands while crossing the road together, or stared into her eyes while talking, or smirked down at her, she could feel her insides turn and twist like a cyclone. She stood there, and watched him for a while, before he looked up, probably sensing her eyes on him.
"You have a personal cabin," she exclaimed as she walked in, "with your name written on the door!"
He smiled, "you don't miss much, do you?"
"You never told me."
"I don't blow my own trumpet, you know," he parroted what she had said last night.
"Oh," Arianne took a seat as he courteously held her chair for her, "this is why you laughed when I asked whether you loaned for The Seacomber?"
He shut the notebook on his table as he sat down opposite her and paid her all his attention. "What happened at the internship?"
She pouted at the change in conversation and said, "they threw me out after having insulted me for a couple of hours for being an awful writer!"
"Stop kidding! Tell me what happened."
"Really? I'm that predictive?"
She told him all about the day and described her chat with Ana Grey - excepting the part where they talked of him - and also told him about how she wanted to talk to her again.
"Today was just an intro. We start from next week, Wednesdays and Fridays, from 3 to 5. Good, we can go back home together."
"What will you do now?"
"I don't know. Do you have plans?"
"We could do with some celebration, maybe. For your internship. Go out for dinner, what say?"
"Great! For now, let me see, maybe, I'll go, get that tea from where Ana said she gets it."
"Where is it?"
"Pike Place Market. Can I take your car?"
"Here," he handed her the car keys.
"When do I pick you up?"
"6:00 will do. Call me when you arrive downstairs."
"Okay, bye Ira."
"Bye, Anne. Happy shopping!"
Arianne went off a little and turned back again at the door and, as she expected, he was watching her go. His eyes held meanings deeper than she could understand. Deeper than what she had read in classics. Deeper than what she had written in her 'hypothetically perfect love stories'. Was that love?
She waved again and blew a kiss at him. He raised his eyebrow and smiling, returned her one.
"It's bad, you know," Anastasia Grey complained to her husband as they drove back home from office that evening, "that she'd not use her talent in life. She's a great writer! If I had met her before she joined college, I'd have advised her to take up English Lit. Stupid girl! Wasting such a talent!"