Dinner In An Overactive Imagination

When I got home from a long weekend, I found a living room full of visitors. The characters from my novel had come for dinner.

Nicola had her head buried in the refrigerator. “Not a hint of anything worth drinking!” she announced to her boyfriend, Phillip.

“I’m almost entirely certain you’re a lush, Nicola,” Phillip retorted.

Nicola laughed and rolled her eyes. “I’m looking for cranberry juice, idiot!” she replied in an unexpected mix of Italian/French accent that matches her black, wavy hair.

I rested a shoulder against the door frame to enjoy their banter. When Phillip got dumped by my heroine, I worried he’d disintegrate into the mists of lost imaginations. I was thrilled when Nicola drunk-called him one night.

“Glo!” I heard Mel call from the living room. “We started some chicken. Come. Sit. We’ll take care of everything!”

She and her daughters sat on the blue couch, thumbing through a photo album. Minnie ridiculed a picture of me waving enthusiastically at a seal. “And then the seal bought her lemons and cooking oil. The rest is Hot Dog on a Stick history.”

Mel hissed her into silence as I retrieved my photo album. “There will be no mocking of the authoress. ‘Twere up to me, you’d all go invade the heroine’s mental spaces and give me silence!” Mel and the girls laughed at my joke, knowing I’d never part with them.

Frank glanced up from Forbes to wink at me, and then settled back into his magazine. John and Lydia sat to his right. Lydia extended a bony hand in polite greeting. “You have a lovely home,” she offered in a tone that reminded me of pre-extreme-dieting humanity. I kissed a gaunt cheek and nodded pleasantly as John told an anecdote about a past client who’d been caught naked in a similar apartment. I didn’t get his point, but smiled and turned to greet the last couple in the room.

They were seated together on a black leather chair, arms locked about each other. I hugged the heroine tightly. She smiled enthusiastically. Her hero grumbled a hello in his memorable accented drawl. I giggled a little as I noticed the hero slip into reverie despite the occasional grunt at conversation, while the heroine rolled her eyes at him.

Leaning against the window was the character closest to my heart. She was the only character left without a happy ending. We didn’t greet each other, choosing to lock eyes in the window pane. She smiled without humor before resuming her contemplation of the street. In my mind, I promised her resolution, knowing she’d never accept platitude in face of stark reality.

We sat down to a meal, with each character giving me details about their lives beyond the novel. I loved every moment.