The Writer Talks to an Old Friend

I hustled over quickly to the counter, Scooter jumping irritably off of my lap. I picked up the receiver, slightly breathless at the idea that the stranger might wake up.


“Aidan! How’ve you been, girl?” a familiar voice blared into my ear, and squinted at the volume, holding the phone out at arm’s length.

“I’m alright, Emma…suffice to say, I’ve had quite an adventure,” I said, looking back to the couch at the sleeping man. His skin looks slightly sunburned. Pale, and no sun-screen? Recipe for disaster.

“Ooh, spill the details!” Emma continued. I could almost hear her excitement.

“Uh…how about ‘I found a passed out guy, and I have not the slightest inkling as to who he is and now he’s asleep on the couch?’” I blurt, and Emma gasps. I can see what she’s doing now—holding a hand over her mouth.

“That’s not like you, Aidan! You’re the hermit of Arizona!” Emma exclaimed, and I huffed.

“Does that automatically place me under ‘spinster category?’”

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