Every other week or so I see the same older couple wander into the Border's bookstore coffee shop. And every time he asks his wife the same thing: "Do they have scones today, Momma?" and every time she sighs and tells him yes; go sit down and I'll get you one.
He takes his coffee with extra cream; I know this because he invariably picks a table as far from the counter as possible and then finds it necessary to remind her as she's placing their order.
Today I was at a small table near the counter because a group of inconsiderate people took the larger table I usually work from. Really. How very rude. As if they didn't know I would be there, wanting to spread my papers out.
I made do with the smaller table and was proofing the chapter I had red-lined last night. After he asked about the scone, I heard her ask him very quietly, "What is she always working on?"
I did not clue in to whom she was referring until I felt him standing behind me, reading over my shoulder.
"She's writing smut, Momma!"
What was on the screen of my netbook?
My soul cracked open and spilled out onto the floor in a giant puddle of embarrassed Oh Hell No.
And I waited for the certain Tsk of derision.
Instead, from behind me came a small voice. "Can I read it?"
I did not get a refill on my tea today; I waited a few minutes and as they sat down to their coffee and scones I packed my things and left, feeling just a little bit dirty but trying hard to not laugh my ass off.
I did not know I was writing smut. Here I thought it was chick porn...