And she slapped down her book with the published piece nestled between the pages.
Her piece was freshly dogeared.
With a lick of his lips and eyes smiling, he coyly asked her, “Tell me. Do you write about every man?”
“Only the best.“
“Am I one of the best?”
“Possibly. If you find out, could you clue me in?”
She gathered her belongings and started to turn away. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her back in.
“Wait. Why don’t you write like this for others?”
“If they wanted to be worth writing about, they should have behaved like the gentleman that you are.”
She opened the book, ironed out his story bent in two and tapped it twice before she winked and walked out the door, “Here’s to a long life. Merry Christmas.”