I'm Wearing Red Pants

But it's early. I'm not anywhere near work, or even the public, in my red pants. I do have some standards, slim though they are. I'll be tastefully dressed in jeans and a nice sweater for work in 2 hours, cross my heart. I might have on red shoes again, though, it wasn't a good sleeping night. It seems like the chiropractor merely chased the pain from my right hip into my left one and, of course, his office is closed today. Guess I'm having Aleve for dessert after meals today. Maybe I'll arrange for M&M chasers.

Let me just say I am pea-green with envy over the fact that two of my writing friends are leaving today for a weekend writing retreat at a convent in southwestern WI. And I don't think either of them are real convent material, but nuns are tough (ask me how I know) and will have them whipped into shape in no time. Have a blast, Laurel and Roi! Write lots!

April 21--Corsica. Charlotte crouched in the corner of the ruined house, the ancient stones cold at her back. She could hear Reynaud's footfalls on the loose rock of the yard. She couldn't believe she had been so foolish as to get herself trapped there like that. He would find her soon. She didn't want to imagine how angry he was, how he would make her sorry that she had tried to get away. She strained her ears but all she heard was the wind whistling through the old orchard behind the stone house. "Cherie, you're going to get your pretty clothes all dirty down there." Reynaud's voice was soft like a caress but she could hear the steel beneath it. "Come." He reached down and lifted her to her feet, his fingers gentle on her arm. She jerked as if she had been slapped and pressed herself harder into the stones. "You're tearing your dress," he said guiding her away with his hand. The gentle solicitous sound of his words and the soft touch of his hand sent a chill to her very core. He slid his arm around her waist and walked her down the rough path to his waiting car. "You must be thirsty," he said when they were seated on the soft tan leather seat. He reached across to left the cut glass decanter from its mount. He poured her a drink and handed her the tumbler. The glass clattered on her teeth as she took a sip. She felt oblivion wash over her in a wave from that single sip. Retribution had begun.

Oh dear, that's not good. Dun-dun-dun.
--Barbara