I’m at a reception for a well-known writer. I’ve paid to attend this reception, and I’ve circled around the noted writer, not daring to approach her, yet daring myself to do so. Finally, a young poet to whom I’ve spoken earlier in the day, strolls up to me. “Shall we?” she asks, and I nod. “It’s easier to do as a pair, I say. “ So we ease up to the writer, waiting for the other adoring ones to fall away, and for her to turn to us.
I hold out my hand. “I’m not very good at meeting famous people,” I say. And before another word, another glance passes, she says, “Can I tell you that you have a piece of something in your teeth?”
“Yes, of course,” I respond, and swish my tongue throughout my mouth, feeling the lettuce bit slip away. I swallow and smile again. “Gone?” I ask.
She nods and turns to the ravishing young woman, the promising poet with whom I had approached her, the one without the crud in her mouth, and I step away.[boxer set=”seale”]