few words. Or so much behind his words.
They smelled delicious and eating was something to do instead of just sitting there feeling even more foolish than I had before I’d blurted out the thing about being undressed, so I broke off a piece and took a bite. It was soft and sugary and started to dissolve as soon as I put it in my mouth. First Grace’s chocolate and now the cookies, I was going to be on a sugar high for the rest of the day.
It was as strange to be sitting beside him doing something as ordinary as sipping coffee and eating cookies as it had been to have him read my own words to me, in my own office. I was too aware of all the tastes and smells and how he moved and what I said and how I sounded. I didn’t feel like myself in Gideon’s presence, and I didn’t know why. No, that wasn’t right. I felt like a version of myself I hadn’t been for years. Open. Vulnerable. Wired. Receptive. Angry. Aware of every fleeting feeling.
“So… I’d like to talk to you about an assignment,” Gideon said as he brushed crumbs off his hands and shifted so that he was facing me instead of the window. “How long have you been writing these stories?”
“About six months.”
“How did you start?”
I took a sip of coffee, then spoke. “The woman who had the job before me had quit and while Grace looked for a replacement she asked me to fill in. It was easy enough. There were a few dozen letters and stories already written, I only had to insert names and places and little facts to make them personal, and then decorate them. I never intended to stay on. And I never thought I’d start writing originals letters or stories. I’d never written seriously but…” I stopped. Why was I telling him my life story? I shrugged. “It is good money and selling collages isn’t.”
“Not the whole story, is it?”
Typically clients spent most of their time looking through my samples. Generally they are either giddy or giggly or slightly embarrassed. Usually happy and excited. They almost never asked me about myself or why I had my job.
I played with some of the crumbs on the marble, rolling them around under my fingertips, buying time, trying to figure out if I had to answer him or not and finally deciding I didn’t.
When he realized I wasn’t going to respond he changed the subject.
“Who owns the letters and stories that are originals?”
“The client does.”
“They can’t show up in your sample book?”
“No.”
The woman across from me picked up her empty plate, lifted her knapsack off the seat next to her, and left.
“And your boyfriend – or husband – what does he think about you writing love letters to strangers?”
“That’s not what I’m doing - the letters aren’t
from
me. I help clients figure out what they want to write. What kind of fantasies they want me to create. There’s a long questionnaire to fill out that gives me a lot of information and insight.”
“But the ideas are yours.”
“No. I’m just the translator for people’s emotions.”
“They’re your thoughts written down in your voice.”
“They aren’t my thoughts. That isn’t my voice.”
“I read them. It’s your voice. Has to be. Unless you ask each client to describe what it feels like to touch someone, kiss them, make love to them. You don’t do you?” He didn’t wait for my answer; he knew this, too. “When you write, aren’t you feeling your own heat? Isn’t that what you’re transferring to the page?”
Something was buzzing under the top layer of my skin again. I reached up and touched my glasses. Almost as if I was making sure the screen that kept people at a distance was still in place.
“You’re the seductress even if you are hiding behind some stranger’s signature.”
I couldn’t tell if he’d accused me or complimented me. And I was even less certain why it mattered. All I knew was that listening to him was like being buffeted by a storm, not sure how far you’ve been thrown
They smelled delicious and eating was something to do instead of just sitting there feeling even more foolish than I had before I’d blurted out the thing about being undressed, so I broke off a piece and took a bite. It was soft and sugary and started to dissolve as soon as I put it in my mouth. First Grace’s chocolate and now the cookies, I was going to be on a sugar high for the rest of the day.
It was as strange to be sitting beside him doing something as ordinary as sipping coffee and eating cookies as it had been to have him read my own words to me, in my own office. I was too aware of all the tastes and smells and how he moved and what I said and how I sounded. I didn’t feel like myself in Gideon’s presence, and I didn’t know why. No, that wasn’t right. I felt like a version of myself I hadn’t been for years. Open. Vulnerable. Wired. Receptive. Angry. Aware of every fleeting feeling.
“So… I’d like to talk to you about an assignment,” Gideon said as he brushed crumbs off his hands and shifted so that he was facing me instead of the window. “How long have you been writing these stories?”
“About six months.”
“How did you start?”
I took a sip of coffee, then spoke. “The woman who had the job before me had quit and while Grace looked for a replacement she asked me to fill in. It was easy enough. There were a few dozen letters and stories already written, I only had to insert names and places and little facts to make them personal, and then decorate them. I never intended to stay on. And I never thought I’d start writing originals letters or stories. I’d never written seriously but…” I stopped. Why was I telling him my life story? I shrugged. “It is good money and selling collages isn’t.”
“Not the whole story, is it?”
Typically clients spent most of their time looking through my samples. Generally they are either giddy or giggly or slightly embarrassed. Usually happy and excited. They almost never asked me about myself or why I had my job.
I played with some of the crumbs on the marble, rolling them around under my fingertips, buying time, trying to figure out if I had to answer him or not and finally deciding I didn’t.
When he realized I wasn’t going to respond he changed the subject.
“Who owns the letters and stories that are originals?”
“The client does.”
“They can’t show up in your sample book?”
“No.”
The woman across from me picked up her empty plate, lifted her knapsack off the seat next to her, and left.
“And your boyfriend – or husband – what does he think about you writing love letters to strangers?”
“That’s not what I’m doing - the letters aren’t
from
me. I help clients figure out what they want to write. What kind of fantasies they want me to create. There’s a long questionnaire to fill out that gives me a lot of information and insight.”
“But the ideas are yours.”
“No. I’m just the translator for people’s emotions.”
“They’re your thoughts written down in your voice.”
“They aren’t my thoughts. That isn’t my voice.”
“I read them. It’s your voice. Has to be. Unless you ask each client to describe what it feels like to touch someone, kiss them, make love to them. You don’t do you?” He didn’t wait for my answer; he knew this, too. “When you write, aren’t you feeling your own heat? Isn’t that what you’re transferring to the page?”
Something was buzzing under the top layer of my skin again. I reached up and touched my glasses. Almost as if I was making sure the screen that kept people at a distance was still in place.
“You’re the seductress even if you are hiding behind some stranger’s signature.”
I couldn’t tell if he’d accused me or complimented me. And I was even less certain why it mattered. All I knew was that listening to him was like being buffeted by a storm, not sure how far you’ve been thrown
Similar Books
