“Whatcha writing?”
Like you’d like to know, witch, he was thinking. “Journal,” he said out loud.
“Oooh. I *love* journals. Can I read?”
His neck suddenly hurt, as if the mere mention of sharing something so personal with her caused him physical pain.
“Uhh. I don’t know. Maybe. Let me work on it some more.”
“Am *I* in it?”
Of course you’re in it, witch. I’m trying to figure out what you are (!). “Kind of,” he said to her. “It’s kind of fiction.”
“Role play, eh?”
“Er, not really.”
“Fiction, though.”
“Yeah.” He let her mull that over. Not role play but still fiction. What does that mean… witch?
—–
He paused to make some coffee. Then they sat outside and stared at the sea.
“I think this is the most romantic place we’ve ever been, Harrison. Can I call you… Harry yet?”
“No.” He was firm about no nicknames. Not until they were married, whenever that would be.
She cuddled against him. “But at least I don’t have to call you Harrison *Ford Jett* any more. Remember that (period)? First the Ford was dropped, then the Jett…”
“I recall.” Of course he remembered. He set the rules. Again he thought that maybe he wasn’t dated the brightest bulb in the drawer. But on that he was dead wrong. *This* was role play. She was doing it very well.
—–
By 8 they were down at the beach lounging about. “Funny, Harrison (she feigned a laugh here), how we (tee hee) can still see our coffees smoking on that patio up there. Strange, eh?”
Harrison didn’t say anything. Witchcraft plain and simple, he knew. This was a *warning.* Don’t talk about role play with me. He’d underestimated her. Why does he keep forgetting how powerful she really was? Must be another spell.
(to be continued?)
Sunklands 