I Know You

Wrote for five minutes with a grand total of 217 words. The dialogue slowed me down quite a bit.

“I know you.” The voice came from behind me, startling me from my reverie. I turned.

She was blonde, almost tall, wearing a long black leather coat, belted over what seemed to be a red sweater dress. I didn’t know her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, miss,” I turned back around and kept walking. Night was falling, and I didn’t want my German shepherd to worry about me. He liked his kibble promptly at six, no later, and I swear that dog could tell time.

Her footsteps followed me. “No, I know you! You’re that writer from Bookman’s. I see you there every weekend, typing away, drinking your cappuccino.” She smiled brightly. “I see you there, and I’ve always wanted to know what you were writing, but I was too shy to ask. You looked busy.”

“So I am. You a writer too?” A comrade in disguise, perhaps. I could use someone to talk to about my plot probl—never mind, I thought, she’s just a girl, not a real student of the craft.

“Yes, I am a writer.” She smiled proudly—to proudly, I though ruefully, to be serious.

“What do you write? Romance novels?”

“Hell, no!” She surprised me with her rough language. “I’m a creative writing student at the university. Literary fiction primarily, but…”