I got home from work, took a nap, and waited for Lauren to pick me up. When we got to Country Kitchen, there were already almost 20 people gathered. We squeezed in, set our laptops up and started writing on a warm-up prompt.
We met at the bridge She was unprepared for the exchange. It was raining. Appropriate. She had parked a bit away and I saw her walking. Watching her walk is a privedge in itself, she is a soft, fluid sway down the sidewalk. She wore a knee-length, black trenchcoat. Her eyes flashed in the lightening. Her thick, brown hair was slicked down her back. Typically, She didn't bother bringing an umbrella.
"Hello, Georgia," I said, white-knuckled fists jammed in my rain coat.
"Ms. Smith." She nodded, "What's this about? That was a very cryptic message you sent me. This is a very cryptic place to meet."
I chuckled, "I could have chosen better, I imagine. Sorry about the rain."
Even now, she had the upper hand, the control. You could see it in the way she comfortably balanced on the balls of her feet. YOu could see it in her half smile. It made my stomach roll. I turned away from her, dangling my fingers over the river. The water was pebbled with the raindrops, no discernable river bed. It was definitely a steamboat river. I imagined that there were snags and sunk treasure all along the shore. Maybe we would discover some history and loot next drought.
"Jane." Georgia put her hand on my shoulder, pulling me from myself, "Talk to me."
"Look, Georgia, this isn't working." I closed my eyes so I could avoid her reaction.
"I am getting all the information you asked for. I have been undercover for 5 years, Jane. I'm not-"
"Stop. You know you aren't getting anywhere. You've come to enjoy the quiet lifestyle of a curator, but it's not who you are, Georgia. I know that. You know that. The agency knows that."
"Fuck." She threw a rock over the bridge. It was her turn to be uncomfortable, to turn her back on me. I leaned against the railing and watched her. "Fuck," She repeated, "I really thought I would catch him this time. I really thought he was working out of Muse D'Art."
But 1:30 hit, I had 1,260 words written, and I needed to go home. Good night, sweet prince.