The mattress first: We're ditching our Sleep Number for a basic Sealy Posturepedic and topping it with a NexGel OrthoGel topper. It'll be awesome--in two weeks. *sigh*.
I have announced to those who might tend to expect things that I am going to try to go to the family reunion in Kentucky this year. Road trip! and camping. I'm already excited.
And lastly, I have fallen shy of my wordcount goal for the day by a mere fifty words. I don't want to start the next chapter yet. It is called "The Gospel According to Cassandra" where we learn what happens if we heed the advice of strangers. Maybe. I'm only to the third chapter. It might be something else in a while.
An Excerpt, for you, after the break:
Chapter Two. Where Cassandra Predicts a Death.
...
“And you, Rebecca.” Their eyes met and Rebecca felt her chest tighten and her pulse quicken. Would she say more? When she did not, Rebecca lowered her eyes and stepped through the door. She paused to hear the click behind her before she walked down the hall. The feeling of panic diluted as she approached the door to the building four floors down from the rooms of Miss Casssandra Algiers.
Outside, she walked the length of the block towards the opposite side of the building from her window. She decided not to chastise herself for the superstition. As a journalist, she was detached and objective; as a detective, she was cold and logical. Today, though, she is just Rebecca—and Rebecca has superstitions.
Rebecca had been out to lunch with a girlfriend from college. They’d graduated two years apart though they started as freshmen the same year. Rebecca refused to switch majors, because she was superstitious. She had heard that if you change your major you’re deciding to be poor for the rest of your life. She heard that over a bologna sandwich on white bread that she was sharing with her roommate. Rebecca finished school in just three and a half years.
The lunch was at a tex-mex restaurant with lace curtains on the windows. Her friend had just scrawled her name—a mingle of Es and Ls that were barely discernable from each other—on the credit card receipt. Ellen Bleile. Rebecca always liked to watch her write her name. She would sit next to her in the classes they shared and watch at the beginning of tests. Then she’d scribe her finely tuned, parallel letters on her own page. They would sit on the line like a line of birds on a wire—perfect symmetry, geometrically identical. Elle paid for lunch because Elle had not become poor for the rest of her life, despite changing majors four times in three years. Rebecca admired her ability to brave the risk. They had had a long conversation, long enough that the sun moving across the sky is what chased them into asking for the check.
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