ME: An eager young writer down on her luck with a complete manuscript.
YOU: A begrudging professor in Milwaukee who really wanted to move to France and make arthouse films exploring the nuances of desire through the motif of an egg—a blue egg, like a robin’s egg or something. We both got soy lattes at the coffee shop near campus and you mistook our double reach for a meet-cute and you asked if I was a student. When I told you I was thirty and a lifeguard at the gym, that I’d written a book, you took the latte even though I’d ordered mine first.
ME: Not the next Georgia O’Keeffe but very good at photographing flowers.
YOU: A middle aged woman with a Frida Kahlo bumper sticker who I met in the parking lot after a hike. You said you were a feminist and when I showed you my pictures on my iPhone you said they’d never be as good as a painting.
ME: A New York-based actress bringing a headshot to a casting service.
YOU: An eager casting director who told me I’d be perfect for a scene where a crowded bus drives off into the distance.
ME: Your girlfriend.
YOU: Busy tonight but totally proud.
ME: A Los Angeles screenwriter working as a waitress who got tipped big tonight.
YOU: A contest for emerging artists.
ME: Got each line of my poem to ten syllables, except for the one meant to break the pattern.
YOU: Said I should read more Frost.
ME: Your student in a Highly Selective Program.
YOU: Don’t want to talk about how to “make it.”
ME: An email sent to the address you listed on your website. In an interview once, you said you loved seeing new talent.
YOU:
