I was nearly run over in the Old Navy parking lot.
Oh, God. That hair.
For the first time in a long time, he seriously considered doing it.
But I was being haunted this particular night by a character I left behind a few years ago: Vincent.
He decided to write to me, as my other character, Shantel, has a few times.
Click on Shantel’s name to read those pieces, and for a sneak peek at the novel in progress,
click here: http://notexactlyalovestory.wordpress.com
Hi. It’s Vincent. I’m writing to let you know that I’m still in that dungeon, waiting.
I don’t mean to be a little asshole about this, but it’s been five years, man. Five fucking years. I mean, have a heart, okay?
Oh, sure. You’ve been busy. Everyone’s busy. And I know you’re writing a cookbook, whatever the fuck that means. Shantel told me: you’re perfecting Poblano Soup and Tres Leches Cake. You’re adapting the Tiramisu your Pop always made and adding ground chocolate.
That’s great. Good for you. Cool.
In the meantime, I have a Dom in navy blue leather walking around upstairs, a bowl of dog food on the floor, a toilet in the corner, and a single bulb to light the whole, dank room.
Can you help me out here?
Because even though you wrote the scene where our transgender heroine saves the day (albeit with the help of two small dogs), and I know Gabe is coming eventually to help me out of this mess (only to get caught up in it himself), I need you to revise.
You’ve got to revise.
Can’t you put aside the Kick-Ass Caesar Dressing, the sliced persimmons, the rose whipped cream and come back to us, come back to me? Please? Hello? Am I getting through? Because I know now that I made a big mistake, okay? I sort of went crazy when I inherited all that dough. Wouldn’t you? I went crazy, temporarily, I guess, and I had a fantasy and a safe word, remember? (Orange! Remember? Orange, orange, orange, orange, ORANGE!)
But that sick bastard—who you insist only goes by “Master”—isn’t listening. He locked me up against my will. That’s called kidnapping, motherfucker. KIDNAPPING. And okay, you’ve got six more recipes to finish. Great. Good for you. Garlicky Daal and Cider-Braised Brussels Sprouts. Sure. You want to sing the praises of the springform pan? More power to you. Really.
But I’m sitting here A-LONE, God damn it! Don’t forget that. Write your cautionary advice about how to best fold the egg whites into the batter, but please, please, PLEASE! Don’t forget about me.