Mike sat down, for his night’s sitting. He couldn’t believe how short the days were self-creasing. He sipped his 2009 Napa Sauv Blanc, still on an SB kick since sipping some with NWG coworkers on 1st and Main, in Napa’s downtown, after his day’s bid. Mike had the monster’s power cord in his bag. The laptop was finally coming with him on the morning commute. He’d write in the café, from 12:32-1:30p. It would take him two minutes to skip from the microscopic time board to one of the circular tables, he thought. He’d more than likely order a straight coffee. “Octane,” as someone in the office it tagged.
Kelly watched him put his little computer in the night-shaded business bag. “You’re taking your laptop to work?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Why?”
“You’re just a little particular with it, and where it goes, that’s all. What are you writing tomorrow?”
“I’m writing a piece on an absolutely brilliant artist in New Jersey that illustrates wine glasses,” Mike says, looking around the office to see if he was forgetting anything. Accessories, books, magazines... “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Going to Bodega Bay, to paint. I sold a small painting today, by the way,” she said, pouring herSelf a little more of the SB. “This is so good. Sauvignon Blanc?”
“That’s awesome. How many is that, now?”
“Three. I’ve sold three. Not for that much. But, I don’t know, I’m selling.”
Mike was jealous, he just wished he had the gall to do what she did; leave her “professional” post, and live from talent. From art. The year was closing, and his goal persisted with a virulently vocal tenacity. He’d be selling his pages to live, by 2011’s close. That’s the only way he’d allow it. “That’s awesome,” he said, passively praising her enviable transition, not knowing where he was in his pursuit of a paralleling position.
9/13/2011, Tuesday
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