April Fool Early

I almost finished typing today for the contest, and then I somehow lost the ten pages I typed. I was sitting on the train with a green pen revising--because I printed it out--and now I do not have the story and I can honestly tell you that I know I am not going to want to type it again. So basically I am not going to enter the contest. I have really mixed feelings about that, because I was really interested in doing it, but I know I am going to be too busy and tired.

I also learned that I am not going to be able to drink coffee until a week from Sunday--I did not even know when Easter was...

I feel like a mess, but here, here is what is left the story. I am giving it to the Fish Tank as well.

Shasha was relatively sure that—was his name Martin—could not have been more anxious than she was.

She rolled a finger on her hangnail, chewed just sufficiently enough that she knew exactly when to stop.

So that she would nor draw blood.

The skin was a bruised red color.

One more tug with her teeth and she would be a vampire.

For the entire week that the figure model had been there all she had done was study the tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

It was a symbol in Morocco that was put on doors to keep evil spirits away.

She could not help but wonder what he wanted to keep away.

Maybe autovampires, she made herself smile before she remembered she was now the one in a vulnerable position.

Because Martin--her professor called his name-–was walking around to see what the class had come up with as his essence.

Her professor had suggested that everyone focus on the part of him that was most striking to them.

“To capture his essence,” she had gesticulated wildly. “to capture his soul.”

The closer that Martin came to her canvas, the more she felt herself pull at that hangnail.

Until finally she took in the taste of blood like a drug.

Closed her eyes.

Opened them.

Saw Martin in front of her.

“No one else even noticed the tattoo. Or anything that was on me."

Shasha looked into his eyes.

She wasn’t so shy with a guy if she had something to say.

“Are you Moroccan?”

”No,” he smiled, his eyes lingered.

Up close he wasn’t that stunning, but his smile and personal demeanor engaged her.

In his back pocket was a novel in Portuguese.

She understood bits and pieces from listening to Astrud Gilberto.

But it did not help her now.

When Martin walked away, she felt the sense of loss she was more than accustomed to.

Folded her things up.

Walked out of the classroom.

Martin stood there.

“Are you playing hard to get?” he asked awkwardly.

Shasha frowned.

“Typical,’ was her clever comeback even if he was too stupid to know.

He followed her down the hall.

She shrugged.

Looked up into his eyes without flinching.

“Typical of really good looking guys to think the world revolves around them!”

"Typical of really smart girls to stereotype any man who is interested in them!” he said to her back.

When she turned to look at him, the only thing that stilled her tongue was the look of injury on his face.

Her head to the side as she adjusted her sketchbook.

Her glasses fell forward slightly so she had to adjust them.

“So what do you have to say? What is your interest in me?”

”You’re putting me on the spot so I am destined to fail.”

Shasha knew she was being a bitch to him, but she could no more stop herself from doing it than anything else.

“I know I am being a bitch,” she said softly. “What do you want from me?”

“Are you doing that on purpose? It is nearly irresistible of you…”

She continued to walk.

Pushed the door to the stairwell.

Felt him close behind her.

Would you believe I overwrote my last post with this one? Bad blog day...