Yesterday was a bit of a slog, trying to get started, trying to get the voice right.  Today, things just sang, and I danced my way over my limit with gay abandon.

I stepped into the poorly-lit, dusty corridor and locked the door behind me, then leaned into the open office across the way. “Mrs. Schwarzkopf?”

“Yes?” A kindly dumpling of an old lady looked up from her desk. Her boss (“Ike Cohen, Esq., Attorney-at-Law,” as the gilt letters on the open door said) had an actual reception area and inner office in his place. He also paid twice our rent, but could see the bay if he craned his neck out the window. Except on a day like today.

“I’m gonna be over at Buttons, okay? If anyone comes by looking, could you let ‘em know?”

She smiled — her smile was warm and genuine and didn’t make me the least excited or uncomfortable. “I’d be glad to, dearie. Hoist one for me.”

I have no idea if we’ll see her again, but I’d like to write more with Mrs. Schwartzkopf.