Tracy Wilcox wove through the stream of pedestrians, intent on catching the next subway and arriving early to the Mid-Manhattan branch library. She hoped to make a good first impression without seeming to have tried too hard, a precarious balancing act that brought on two changes of outfits before the normally self-assured young woman felt ready. She'd settled on a black vintage dress hemmed short enough to expose her long legs and give a peek at the tattoo on her right thigh, a typewriter with two birds pulling at a sheet of protruding paper. An observant eye would notice the word "Writer" on the page, more of an aspiration than a declaration since Tracy still saw herself as a novice.
Her motivation in joining a writers group had been to get help with her craft, but you never know. The potential to meet single literate men certainly exceeded "Petals," where she spent her days selling flowers to brides or men who already had a love interest. At the very least, she hoped to meet some friends who shared her passion for writing.
Once seated, she realized she'd forgotten to bring a book and cursed herself for stepping onto a train with no shield against unwanted attention. Sure enough, she immediately noticed a guy in a Yankees cap pass all the empty seats in the car to make his way over to her. She pulled at the hem of her dress in an attempt to hide the tattoo, an all-too-easy target for conversation. But the effort was pointless, and as the guy took the seat next to her, his opening line was, "Nice tat."
"Thanks," Tracy muttered as she took out her manuscript.
Tracy Wilcox wove through the stream of pedestrians, intent on catching the next subway and arriving early to the Mid-Manhattan branch library. She hoped to make a good first impression without seeming to have tried too hard, a precarious balancing act that brought on two changes of outfits before the normally self-assured young woman felt ready. She'd settled on a black vintage dress hemmed short enough to expose her long legs and give a peek at the tattoo on her right thigh, a typewriter with two birds pulling at a sheet of protruding paper. An observant eye would notice the word "Writer" on the page, more of an aspiration than a declaration since Tracy still saw herself as a novice.
Her motivation in joining a writers group had been to get help with her craft, but you never know. The potential to meet single literate men certainly exceeded "Petals," where she spent her days selling flowers to brides or men who already had a love interest. At the very least, she hoped to meet some friends who shared her passion for writing.
Once seated, she realized she'd forgotten to bring a book and cursed herself for stepping onto a train with no shield against unwanted attention. Sure enough, she immediately noticed a guy in a Yankees cap pass all the empty seats in the car to make his way over to her. She pulled at the hem of her dress in an attempt to hide the tattoo, an all-too-easy target for conversation. But the effort was pointless, and as the guy took the seat next to her, his opening line was, "Nice tat."
"Thanks," Tracy muttered as she took out her manuscript.