Words, words, words Just words

Ink stains on my fingers, a few streaks of smudged blue across the white page and the back of my hand, my wrist.
Being caught in the middle of a writing session for me is like other people being caught masturbating.

I was tucked neatly in the corner table of Starbucks with a new notepad that was falling apart the second I cracked the spine.  Totally in my own little world, when someone bumped the table.  Looking up I closed the notepad quickly. 

Zane was standing there looking at what I had been writing. 

I know I was ten shades of pink in under a second.  This is also why I like to do my notes in long hand so that no one can read my handwriting.

In this case, I was working out a few quirks on a new short story.  Zane had inspired a scene and  I had been taking notes on his movements, trying to describe the shape of his nose, the outline of his shoulders under the tapioca-caramel coloured uniform. Until he decided to peek over my shoulder at my notes.

Here's the thing, he never said anything, just turned away like he always does and started to chat it up with this teenaged girl who was standing around by his side of the check outs.   Not too sure if that is good or bad.