“Catching me before I hit the ground.”
Knock, knock, knock.
I glanced over at my closed office door and raised an eyebrow as I typed the final few sentences in chapter twenty of my manuscript. My desk was covered in tissues, and a half bottle of cough syrup sat beside me. My eyes burned a bit from exhaustion, but I knew I still needed another five thousand words before I could call it a night. Plus, Talon would be awake in a few hours for a bottle, therefore it seemed pointless to even consider going to bed.
Knock, knock, knock.
Standing up, I stretched a bit before opening the door. Lucy stood there with a glass of whisky in her hand and a remarkably wide smile on her lips.
“Hi, Graham Cracker,” she said, stumbling a bit as she swayed back and forth.
“Do you need something?” I asked, completely aware and alert. “Are you all right?”
“Are you a psychic?” she asked, placing her glass to her lips and taking a sip. “Or a wizard?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, it has to be one of those,” she said, dancing down the hallway, back and forth, swirling, twirling, humming. “Because how did you know that Richard—er, Dick would break up with me? I’ve been thinking about that repeatedly with Johnnie tonight, and I’ve concluded that the only way you could’ve known is if you are a psychic.” She came closer to me and tapped my nose once with her pointer finger. “Or a wizard.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m happy.”
“No, you’re drunk. You’re simply covering your sadness with a blanket of whisky.”
“Que sera, sera.” She giggled before trying to peer into my office. “So, is that where the magic happens?” She giggled again then covered her mouth for a second before leaning in closer and whispering, “I mean, magic as in your stories, not your sex life.”
“Yes, I figured, Lucille.” I closed my office door, leaving us standing in the hallway. “Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please, the kind that tastes like wine.”
We walked past the living room, and I told her to wait on the couch for me to grab the drink.
“Hey, Graham Cracker,” she called. “What’s your greatest hope?”
“I already told you,” I yelled back. “I don’t hope.”
When I walked back, she was sitting straight up on the couch with a smile on her face.
“Here you go,” I said, handing her the glass.
She took a sip of the water and her eyes widened, stunned. “Oh my gosh, I know who you are now. You aren’t a psychic, you aren’t a wizard—you’re Reverse Jesus!” she exclaimed, her doe eyes wide with wonderment.
“Reverse Jesus?”
She nodded quickly. “You turned wine into water.” Even I couldn’t hold in my smile at that one, and she was quick to notice. “You did it, Graham Cracker. You smiled.”
“A mistake.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “My favorite mistake thus far. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“You may not be a psychic, but sometimes I think I am, and I have this psychic feeling that one day I’m going to grow on you.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You’re pretty annoying,” I joked, making her laugh.
“Yes, but still. I’m like an ingrown toenail. Once someone lets me in, I dig my claws in.”