"And it's still coming down on me…"-Indio

Mating habits of the migrating George Washington, transvestites, and manga murder mysteries. Yup, another Wednesday night writers' group. Actually, this one was a little extraordinary. A woman glared at me. That's right! A woman hasn't given me that passionate a look in quite a while, not even the cute little grocery store clerk who asks about my weekends. What's more, I got the glare twice!

See, this is what happened. A new guy showed up, and this woman who's been attending since late August was critiquing his work—I'll stop here for a second.

There's something you should know about our group before I proceed. Some groups are well structured machines that churn out critiques faster than Gutenberg could press a Bible. Ok, I suppose that was kinda slow, but he was fast for his day! And so are some writers' groups. That's not us. We're chaos on a string daring centrifugal force to throw us to the winds. We're not for everybody. Oh, everybody is welcome, but if you're really shy, or the type of person who irons their underwear and has a set of "Special" editing pencils, you're probably not going to get what you want from our group. That is unless you like to press other peoples underwear. We always take ours off and leave it in a pile on the table for newcomers. Ok, I'm joking about the underwear. I'm the only one who does that. And no, that's not why she glared at me.

The girl glared at me because she was reviewing the new guys work, and having trouble finding the words to describe what wasn't working for her. I had plenty, so I offered her a few of my own.

"I don't know what, but I found something uhm...uncomfortable about this."

I interrupt here, laughing, "You mean other than the obvious? The transvestite sex on the third page could be considered discomforting?" This is where she glared at me. I don't know why, I found the sex disturbing. It just seemed funny that that wasn't what was first on her list. She glared. I laughed.

She did it again, but she set herself up, I just gave her a reason while taking my turn critiquing the same work:

"Your dialogue is long. When most people speak, they speak in short bursts."

"Unless they're Rob." She smiles at her jab. I nod, and store it away.

I smile to her, "Why yes, that is true," and turn back to the guy I'm critiquing, "then you'll need pages of unstructured speech. Two periods, a comma and a bunch of fragments. But other people use fewer words. They pass out little bits of information in digestible packets."

"What?" my heckler grins again, "that's an example.".

"Exactly." Turning back to her I say, "and congratulations, that's by far the shortest blurb of dialogue you've uttered all evening."

Ok, you had to be there. My smile, my inflection it was a barb of fun. Just a little stab. Here on cyber-page it sounds kind of mean. Still, despite my good intentions, there was that glare again. I couldn't quite interpret what she was thinking, but I had a hunch on the general direction. I turned the other cheek so the death lasers would even out my complexion.

But here's the thing, that was the first time in a long time a woman had looked at me with any passion at all. I was excited! Even MyUnwife didn't look at me that way. She'd disposed of all telling glances months ago. Her face of '07 was a white mask. Even when she professed to hating me, the look was buried beneath a false smile. It was the look that said "I know the look is important to you, and I'm not giving it to you." It's ok, I was busy masking myself at the time. We wore porcelain visages till the end.

Oh, and speaking of the writing—I was speaking of writing, you just have to go back an extra paragraph--I need to give a quick thanks while I'm thinking about it. Extendedforecast, has unwittingly helped me with one of my current project's character's passions in one of her posts. She also gave me a book title as well. Yeah, she's an inspirational light without even trying.

That's the second time she's creeped inside my head, most people don't try it once, and nobody goes back in for seconds; that won't be allowed anymore. Her post privileges have been revoked. I'm making this retroactive, starting last month. This means all her razor sharp posts of the last week will be erased. Go ahead, try and post. I dare you. See that look? That's the same glare I got in writers' group. Oh, and even though you're glaring at me for no good reason, thanks again.

See? Believe it or not, those glare's make me feel guilty. Not to the women giving them, but to MyUnwife. In a way, I feel like by letting a woman look at me with any feeling, I'm cheating. Yet what's cheating? I'm only married in the most technical of senses. And it's not like I'm dating. Still it's a reflex, like socking the doctor in the jaw when he pulls out his little hammer. Glance=guilt. What is the statute of limitations on this crime? When can I smile or glare back innocently, or not so innocently, however the mood strikes me, and not feel like I owe MyUnwife a slaughtered ram?

It's like she's kicked me out in a hallway full of doors. Behind each door is a glace, or chance at something more. The passage behind me is locked, all I can do is go forward, but not too far: a tether runs from my leg to something underneath the door behind me. Every time I knock on a new door, the tether jerks me to the floor. So, I stand in the hallway willing doors to open, praying for happenstance to send somebody out into the hall for their newspaper, or box delivery. The girl in 118 hasn't come out to pick up her care package from home, so I'm using it as a seat. I hope she doesn't mind. I found rice crispy treats inside. They were tasty. A man needs sustenance, and sticky rice cereal bars are an important nutrient in the writer's world.

You want to hear something else, while I'm out here waiting? The girl who glared at me? She wrote a poem that I had to critique. Those same eyes that burned moments prior, were now dark, endless and attentive: devouring every word. My gaze danced around, like an aggie marble avoiding the sink drain, knowing each pass may be my last. I couldn't look into her eyes, I'm not ready for that. Not yet.