Pink

Solitude is definitely conducive to writing. Were all the great reclusive writers reclusive because they were great or great because they were reclusive?
Working the closing shift at KWF solo this evening I found myself dictating vignettes to my mental secretary. She leaves a lot of the stuff I tell her out of the record, not sure why I keep her around. It seemed that every task I undertook took on new layers of complication, resulting in the overwhelming feeling of accomplishing nothing! Here's a funny story from the evening that is so very me!
A handsome man came to the back of the store looking for the owner. I put him in touch with someone more helpful and returned to dicing celery. A little while later I went out front for something and met him again serving himself some soup. "Hi again!" he said, "So are you running the cafe now?" Many people have asked me this and I humbly admit to being just part of the team. I do find the question awkward sometimes, like when the manager is standing right next to me, but there was no one around this evening. All the same, apparently I started blushing, because he started to apologize profusely for making me feel uncomfortable. Realizing that I was blushing, and being fairly certain it was more because this man was so handsome than because he had mistaken me for management, only made it worse and the only thing I could do as my face became one roaring bonfire was giggle and head for the safety of the kitchen. Oh, and somewhere in there there was an exchange of names. I am somewhere between dread at the certainty of more blushing when I see him next and hoping that I see him every day for the rest of my life. In my defense, there are a lot of skin irritants in the cafe that might cause me to be a little pink anyway!