Taste of Italy

C H A P T E R t e n

                                                                               . . .

  Her computer was nicely positioned in front of her, placed on the restaurant's table. Iris would have originally sat at one of the lobby's desks, but thought she'd feel more comfortable with a little food in her stomach.

Of course her order was breakfast, but she asked for orange juice in a wine glass. Coffee wasn't her forte; she loathed the taste of it. But she also didn't want to get a bland cup for her drink. Though it was normal, she wanted to be "fancy" for the morning, as she worked on her manuscript. If it was evening, she would've had a glass of wine instead.

Iris stared at some notes she wrote down long ago, to help her focus on the characters, setting, and plot.

Her eyes skimmed down to the bottom of the second page:

- Kate begins to wither away shortly after her son's funeral.

- Jackson tries to help her, but she pushes him away; believes that he doesn't know how it feels as he was the step-father.

- Kate thinks that Jackson wasn't good enough to him as he was always insulting him.

- Jackson doesn't want to believe it, but feels guilty anyway, though he tries to push through it, especially with their marriage.

While reading the notes, her head bobbed along, even nodded at times. She thought she had been on the right track, but the outline felt a bit forced, maybe even senseless. It wasn't that new of a story, but maybe it wasn't the right kind that she should write?

Iris took a pen, a new sheet of paper, and began to jot down other ideas for the future chapters. How was it supposed to turn into a "master piece" if it wasn't even that great of an idea to start with? Only a few chapters had been written and it had already begun to sound like garbage.

Moments passed as four pages of ideas were written: shot down and scribbled out, great and circled, arrows pointing to the next scene, the plot thickening. Iris didn't know how long it had been since she started replotting her book. Apparently, time went by so fast that her food sat in front of her.

She blinked twice and moved her work aside, digging into the gourmet breakfast.

With her mouth full, a man sat on the other side of the table. "Don't ya look beautiful this mornin'."

Iris swallowed. "Dante? What are you doing here?"

"Originally, I was gonna ask you the same thin' but, then I saw you working. Is it your book?"

Her tongue grazed against the front part of her teeth. "I wasn't particularly writing, but I was replotting the rest of the story."

"May I?" Dante pointed to the papers on the side of her. Iris hesitated. On one hand, it was good for her to show it to someone who could appreciate writing as much as she did. But on the other hand? He could easily demolish her hopes and dreams and become some judgmental freak.

Allowing him to read her ideas was both nerve wracking and a great risk.

"Sure," she finally said, doubtful.

Dante took the papers and skimmed through them. While doing so, Iris decided to fill the silence with her chewing and gulping down her drink.

After a few moments, his head looked up and his eyes stared into hers. "It's really great, honestly."