Last Saturday was crazy.
I was so busy I didn’t make it to the grocery store until late. Didn’t finish shopping until almost midnight. As I loaded my groceries into the car, two women one parking row over were yelling at each other. Had it been daylight, I would probably have gotten in my car, turned the rear view mirror to the necessary angle and attempted to view the scene from behind locked doors. But, it was dark. I was wearing black. They couldn’t see me. I stood there brazenly staring as one gorgeous, absolutely drunk, young woman shouted into the passenger window of a car as the female driver returned the favor (The only word I could understand began with B and ended with I-T-C-H.)
After a while, the man in the passenger seat interjected, “Nuh-uh. We’ve been living together for six months.”
The inside woman hollered a little more.
The outside woman stuck her head through the passenger’s open window and slithered in up to her waist. She emerged a couple minutes later, promising to show the passenger her “heart.” She promptly pulled up her blouse and bared her twins.
I wanted to run over and say, “Honey! Stop! It’ll be years before you can look at yourself again.”
I figured if her own girlfriend couldn’t get her to stop . . .
As a woman, I was embarrassed for her. I watched until she was safely back in the car with her friend. I sighed with relief when they pulled out of the parking lot.
As a writer, I tried to find my way around inside her drunken head. I followed the trails to and from all the “what ifs” I could think of. The possibilities were endless.
Ah. Character flaws.
Can’t live with ’em.
Can’t write without ’em.