The Middle of August-Auggh

Egads, my goal of one posting a week hasn’t worked. But here we are again. Elise says hello. The draft of the whole story is done, but needs work – Revision, Revision, Revision. I’m doing a writing challenge with friends in my RWA chapter. Pushed me to do at least 1,000 words per day, and I have moved to new stuff. Revising doesn’t count. But resting the story for awhile will be good. Go back with a fresh eye.
A possible hurricane – Issac – is churning it’s way toward the Gulf, or maybe the Republican Convention in Tampa. Pray it’s weakened by passing over Hispaniola and Cuba. This is high hurricane season, and New Orleans has an anniversary next week – seven years since Katrina. The new stuff I’m working on stems from a memoir I wrote before Katrina and haven’t touched until this week. We’ll see if any of it is worthwhile. Posting a short paragraph below:
In this short story, Joan is infatuated with her boss, Mr. G although she loves her husband, Larry. This is about her last day on the job in 1966.

In my last week, Mr. G said, “Joan, could you go to lunch with me today?”
Surprised and pleased, I took my eight-months pregnant self out of the office at noon to ride with him to a local restaurant. I sat with my hands clenched across my huge stomach, biting my lips and bouncing my knee. I was painfully aware of him and his faint scent of Old Spice sitting next to me in his Dodge Monaco with black, leather bucket seats. The odor of cigarettes lingered in the car. All of us in the sales department smoked.
At the Orchard Inn we sat at a table in a back corner that he had reserved. The dining room was adjacent to the bar, and several men were in the bar, smoking and drinking. As out of place as a chicken in an opera house, I squeezed into the chair, sucking in my stomach as best I could.
Mr. G ordered a gin and tonic for himself, but I declined a drink. I didn’t trust myself to be this intimate with him and drink. He ordered crab salads for both of us, and I was too nervous to eat much or to hold a conversation. In the office, we chatted easily about everything–the Colts’ football season, Johnny Unitas’s record and whatever. But this day, I was tongue-tied.
By the time he’d finished his salad and I was through playing with mine, the silence was deafening. I couldn’t wait for us to go back to the office. But before we left, he tugged out a package he’d carried in from the car and passed it to me. “This is for you–a going away present.”
Embarrassed and close to tears, I ducked my head and fumbled with the bag. Inside was a white oblong box from Hochschild Kohn’s, my mother’s favorite department store. I inhaled the fancy-department-store smell of something new. But I shivered at the prospect of Larry’s finding out Mr. G gave me a gift. How was I going to hide this from him? What is it? It was a set of stirling silver candlesticks.

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