My imaginary conversations

Ours was about the ninth or tenth imaginary conversation I'd had so far today. I'd seen her
writing out of the corner of my eye, thought that was a funny kind of thing to be doing at
the beach, thought, in fact, that it was the sort of thing I'd be doing, probably because I
had been doing it for the past two hours or so, and dreamed up the brilliant exchange we'd
have if I ever had the courage to speak to her.

"Are you a writer?" I'd say.

"Yes I am," she'd say. And then I'd ask her about the kinds of writing she does, and she'd
ask the same of me, and then we'd get to talking about something else, and before
either of us knew what was happening, we'd be walking down the beach, the sun would
be going down, no one would steal my beach chair or any of my stuff, and all would be
right with the world.

It wasn't as though there was any reason I should be intimidated by her. She was cute,
but not gorgeous; she was just beautiful enough, just confident enough to walk around
the beach in her bathing suit and know she looked good in it. I respected that, even if
it meant that I probably wouldn't say a word to her as I gathered up my stuff, dusted myself
off, and headed back to the car.

"You're leaving at the most beautiful time of the day," she said.

Astonishment. Disbelief. She was speaking to me, shading her eyes with one beautifully
sculpted arm and looking directly at me. I fumbled for something brilliant to say.

"Uh, yeah. It is nice." Better stick to the script. "So, are you a writer?"

"Aspiring," she said. Good answer, I thought, but something was setting off my
spider-sense. She lowered her hand, and I saw the sparkle of diamonds on her fingers.

"What kind of stuff do you write?" I asked.

"Reflections," she said. "Collections. Ideas. I never know how they're going to turn out,
or what I'm going to do with them. I just put them down."

"I'm a writer too," I said, having sat there with a yellow legal pad in front of me for most of
the afternoon.

"You should do something with it," she said. "So many people write and don't do anything
with it. Get it published. Work at it."

"I'm working on it," I said. "It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," she said. "Good luck with it."

She went back to her book, and I went back to my car, and that, probably, is the end of that.
She looked casual, nonchalant, and infinitely more sophisticated than I'll ever be as I
left for home, but I saw her look up as I was pulling out of the parking lot, and I was glad
I'd gone to the beach.