88. The evening muse

Margie scrabbled around in her khaki satchel for her scribbler, her mind still churning over that last paragraph. Something did not gel, did not fit, did not work. And it was driving her to distraction. She eased back in her canvas chair, chewed the end of her 2B pencil, and watched the silver Peugeot negotiate the Five Ways round-a-bout.

She felt blessed to work out here some evenings, to join the crowd of thirty-somethings enjoying life on the street on balmy weekend evenings as summer wound down. Barry did not appreciate the background noise and preferred to stay ensconced in front of the league replay, alternately grouching and celebrating. Margie found that the ambience oiled her creativity.

She slashed an index finger through the air. That was it. Her heroine was not that tall. She scribbled hastily on the pad with the soggy pencil, then took up the Qwerty position.