Samplers: Waiting for Neruda's Memoirs-1
a little book treat and gold foil
Enjoy a little Friday fun with our new Samplers!
What’s a Sampler?
Each sampler offers you a taste of a book from our creative collection at —chapter by chapter, up to five chapters in all.
Opening the Whole Sampler
Paid subscribers can open all the chapters in the sampler.
But?
If you’re a free subscriber, you can still sometimes find…
The Gold Foil
Every sampler contains surprises along the way. Some of these surprises are available to all subscribers. Some are available to paid subscribers only.
Watch for the gold foil fun!
Today’s Sampler Treat: Waiting for Neruda’s Memoirs—Chapter 1
She stared up at the ceiling as he studied the paper. Swung her feet back and forth under the desk. She could barely reach the gleaming tile floor with her tiptoes. Who made these chairs anyway? The Jolly Green Giant?
She tried breathing deeply…slowly and quietly gulping up the atmosphere. But something about the way he raised his eyebrow as he read niggled. She knew what was coming.
The voices of the watchers hissed in her ear. Who does he think he is? That he could sit there and read about you—about you, for heaven’s sake—without saying one word? As if you weren’t sitting there right in front of him. And now this: A raised eyebrow?
She tried ignoring the voice. But the more she resisted, the more insistent it grew—dividing into multiple echoes until a cacophony filled her head. Panic welled inside her as the voices reached a crescendo. She glanced frantically at the man studying her resume.
“Those aren’t the best pieces of me, you know.”
As soon as she spoke, the voices quieted and she felt immediate gratitude.
He lifted his eyes and looked at her over his glasses—eyebrows raised again.
“Pardon me?”
“Those aren’t the best pieces of me.”
He looked absolutely baffled.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, you can’t expect me to bring the best parts, can you? Not to a perfect stranger. Not to someone I don’t even know.”
His mouth was hanging open now and he dropped the resume on his desk in front of him.
“I’m sorry…I don’t…”
She was feeling quite indignant and the watchers’ pleasure heated up her cheeks. But just as quickly as the triumph umphed, the reality of the situation dropped hard between them. Amy looked at the bank manager looking at her. He wasn’t much older than she—probably mid-forties. He had taken his suit jacket off when they entered his office and as she walked through the door behind him she noticed that his white shirt was terribly wrinkled in the back—he had only pressed the front. A practical man. How could he possibly understand?
And yet…he had been kind to her—had smiled with his whole face—even his eyes. If he noticed her dress was too large, he hadn’t let on—as if he frequently interviewed malnourished neurotic women. He had inquired about her life with genuine interest—was she from around here? What brought her to these parts of Virginia?
Now, he stared openly at her with the expression of someone who had just discovered mold on a piece of bread already half eaten. She watched as the slightly shocked expression faded into one of concern. He leaned closer to her over the top of his desk.
“Ms. Pinkleberry…are you okay?”
He knit his brows together and slid his hand across the desk tentatively, his fingers stopping just short of hers. As if bridging the distance between them might bring her to her senses.
The kindness was more than she could bear.
“Oh, nevermind!”
She stood up abruptly as tears welled, grabbed the resume from his desk, and fled the office. She didn’t stop running until she was two blocks away…then she leaned up against a gray brick office building and sobbed uncontrollably.
So. Steven was right. She really was crazy.
She needed that poetry book.
Featured photo by makelessnoise, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Gold foil photo by Isabella Fischer, and Gold Ribbon photo by freestocks, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.