"This is it," I said, unnecessarily, as I opened the door to my flat.
"Very nice."
I had a quick glance because I often suspect people of being insincere with casual compliments. He seemed to genuinely like it. There was no reason not to -- it was a cool place, with the big windows and high ceilings, and the pretty (although defunct) fireplace. My sofa was covered by a thick red throw, a deep red, and it was luxurious in colour and in texture. I invited him to sit down on it, and he did, and I went round the corner to the semi-open plan kitchen, and raised my voice to ask him what he wanted to drink.
"What are my options?"
"Chilean red...orange juice... or water. That's it, sorry."
"It's more than I have at my place. Wine please."
I poured for us and took a long moment alone by the sink, to work out what I was thinking and feeling, and what I expected or wanted to happen now. I wanted someone to want me. And not some random creep, someone I actually liked. And that was happening. Great. But what now. Around a year since my last fumbling interaction with a guy, I could hardly remember how it all was supposed to work.
"Here you go. It's on the house."
"Wow, thank you. That's so generous of you."
I winked at him. "I know. You're a lucky boy." Slowly, very slowly, I sat down, on the other end of the sofa. Like some sort of prude. He laughed, probably under the misapprehension that I was messing around. I wished I had thought to put some music on. Something to take the place of the silence. It seemed to soon to stand up again.
"So, tell me some more about your book," Ed said, and that gave me an excuse to hop up, and retrieve my laptop. On the way back I stuck the TV on and opened my music streaming app. On with a playlist of nice relaxing shoe-gaze.
"Here it is. Have a little scan of it, if you want to." I placed the laptop on his lap, and turned away to feign interest in the street outside. I usually don't share any works in progress. To be honest, I don't really share my writing with people who know me. I just don't like to. It's another side of me and I get embarrassed. I feel like I'm showing too much. It would be like a friend seeing me get out of the shower. I don't want that to happen. But this time I just went ahead and did it.
I took a quick glance back and Ed was concentrating firmly, with pursed lips, and his use of the down arrow key assured me that he wasn't reading it in minute detail. That was something, at least. Taking advantage of his focus, I tried to figure out what of his face appealed to me so much. I couldn't quite identify it.
"I like this. This is good." He kept his eyes on the screen, kept moving through it, and I watched him in silence for a few minutes. "It's better than the title suggests. I think you should change the title. 'Rosie's summer of love?' I don't think that does it justice."
"Okay, well, I'm all ears." Titles never were my strong point. I would have liked to have just called it Romantic book project number sixteen, if that had been a viable option.
"Oh, I don't actually have a suggestion. I just think you might want to change it."
"So helpful." I reached over and gave him a nudge in the shoulder with my knuckles, the most daring contact made so far. "What else?"
"Well, I've only had a few minutes with it, but maybe this classmate of hers -- I guess this is who she has the casual thing with?" I nodded yes, and he continued. "Well, I would want to make him a a bit more sympathetic. Because how you've written him.... he does seem very very annoying. Which might be fine. But you did say that the story is partly about a difficult decision for her -- to carry on with this immature guy of her age, or pursue things with the professor. Yeah?"
"Yeah, basically."
"Well, if you make the student a bit more likeable, then the decision is going to be more difficult, it's going to seem like more of a genuine dilemma. At the moment it doesn't quite come across like that. For me." That made sense. I nodded, and waited for more. He read on for a few more minutes. "I like this a lot. This scene where she's in his office, and he tells her that stuff about his elderly parents, and they get really close. I think that's great. Great feeling."
"Thanks," I said, and I moved just a little bit closer, to read over his shoulder. I understood why he liked it, it was a good scene. I'd felt good writing it. It had worked for me. "Some of the other bits are really bad. I can't seem to make them... I don't know. So much of it falls flat."
