Martinis and Warm Milk

This past weekend was my friend Afra's birthday. In honor of the event, her husband Diego (also my friend) threw her a Martini and Warm Milk party. No, there wasn't any sort of dairy fetishism involved—the warm milk was for Afra, who is very pregnant.

I was going to do a rundown of who attended and what people wore, only how boring would that be? Like you'd care that Nate was there sporting Gap original jeans. But the conversation was sparkling, so for those of you who missed the party, here's what was overheard...

In the Robe

I stared at the blank screen for about five minutes before I broke down and turned to Nate. "Love, what should I blog about this week?"

"I'm in the robe," he replied, pulling his hood lower over his head. Translation: it's early morning and I'm still sleepy and trying to drink my coffee—why are you bugging me?

So I said, "I was thinking something tied to murder, but I'm not naturally homicidal so I can't come up with anything."

No reply.

"I could write about the paranormal aspect of the story I'm working on. I'm having a little trouble defining the powers my heroine is going to earn and I could use the feedback."

No reply.

"You're right." I nodded. "I'll figure it out on my own. I'd write about alligators, but I think that topic was exhausted last week."

Still no reply.

"Maybe I should write about a character who becomes invisible every time he puts on his robe. I could make it an ongoing serial. The kind where people come back every week and get the next chapter."

He grunted and lifted the coffee cup to his lips.

I tapped a finger to my lips. "I think I'll name the character Nate."

"I think you should blog about how you torture your love," was the reply from under the hood.

"Hmm." After a few seconds of thought, I shook my head. "No one would believe it."

Murder

Last week, I killed someone.

It wasn't a lark, but it wasn't exactly premeditated either. I needed Gabrielle, my main character, to step up to the plate—she was totally resisting—and the quickest way was to blow the head off of this guy who'd been following her. What better way to get her attention and make her take responsibility of the situation she's in?

Problem is, now I'm thinking of doing it again. Killing someone, that is.

I'm telling myself it's for the greater good of my story. I don't want to kill him—he's a really great, sexy guy—but in the end his death will add to Gabrielle's character. That makes his murder justified, doesn't it?

Or am I deluding myself? I mean, how long before I kill another character? Will I get to the point where I can't stop myself even though I feel remorse and guilt?

And what does one do after the killing? I've got this body on my hands and I have no idea what happens when the police find it. I was thinking of going up to a SFPD officer and saying Hi. I'm Kate. Could you tell me how your homicide department works so I know what to do with the body of the guy I just killed? but Nate said that probably wasn't a great idea.

Sigh.

Excuses

With great flair, I pressed the back of my wrist to my forehead and moaned. When I got no response from Nate, who sat next to me on the couch watching the opening of the PGA season, I moaned again—louder this time.

Keeping his eyes on what was apparently a riveting match, he asked, "What's wrong, love?"

I heaved a sigh. "I just don't know."

"Oh," he exclaimed.

How sweet—he sounded seriously disturbed by my ennui.

"Did you see that eagle?" Pointing at the TV, he shook his head in wonder. "That was amazing."

Hmmph. It was hard to care about a bird, even if it was on the endangered species list, so I did what I do best: I pouted.

A commercial came on. Nate muted the TV before slipping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him. "What's going with you, love?"

"Nothing." Another huge sigh.

He nodded knowingly. "You haven't written today, have you?"

I scowled at him.

"You'd feel better if you went out and wrote for a while."

Fuller pout. "I can't."

"Why not?"

I held up my right pinky. "It hurts."

He kissed the tip. "Does it feel better now?"

"I don't know. Maybe I should rest it today. So it recovers fully."

Nate just gazed steadily at me with his beautiful blue eyes.

"You don't want me to injure it worse, do you?" I frowned. Was that amusement in his eyes? "Are you laughing at me?"

"Never, love." His lips twitched. "But I bet it'd feel better if you exercised it."

I thought about that. Then I shook my head. "I remain unconvinced."

"Is this because you started a new book? You always get, uh, apprehensive when you start a new story."

Sometimes I hate that he knows me so well. "I think your golf match is starting up again."

Of course he ignored me. "How about if you go out and try to write for an hour? If you don't write a word, at least you tried. You'll feel better for trying."

"Ha!"

Nate tipped my chin and kissed me. "Enough excuses. Go out and write."

My lip plumped out on its own. It may have even quivered a little. "I don't know what to write."

He stroked my hair. "But you always figure it out, don't you?"

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"I guess that means you're going."

Grumbling, I got off the couch. "Yeah, but if I can't write I'm going to brainstorm a list of bigger and better excuses for next time."