Fiction
The Mystery Writer
A writer meets an interesting woman
Despite the cold night I slept with the window open. It was too tempting to fall asleep to the sound of the water.
Though now that I’d shrugged off the two quilts that decision didn’t seem so smart and now I was forced to close it.
The small room was cold. Mostly because of my preference for the sound of the surf at night, but also I knew Mary lowered the heat in the building to try and keep the costs down.
The spartanly furnished room had all I needed, a bed, and a desk. The furniture was old but beautiful. Made by hand by Mary’s father, a carpenter of local renown.
And of course, the window. The window sat perfectly over the desk in such a way that it would add the perfect ambience to a lazy day of writing. It had everything, a little bit of forest, a little slice of beach, and of course the water lapping gently at the shore.
But the writing could wait, I had to get up and move around a little before praying to the typewriter gods.
I gathered my things, a leather bound notebook, some pens, my computer, and a jacket, and piled it into a leather knapsack that had been my constant companion throughout my career.
