“Pleeese?” I plead. “I heard that you’re the best. I wasn’t even sure how to find you. I Googled first, of course, but no answer appeared about how to locate someone with your skills.”
She rolls her large, turquoise eyes.
See what I mean? She has an attitude, which I don’t appreciate. But beggars can’t be choosers, to repeat an old cliché.
I continue, acting as if I can’t tell she’s bored with me and my request. “Then I called my best friend, who laughed at me, as if she thought I was joking. I wasn’t. So I e-mailed my critique group. Not one response, so they’ve either already found their own specialist, or they’re cowering underneath their writing desks, staring blankly at the walls.”
The Specialist titters at this. But I’m not joking, again.
I breathe in deeply and peer at the Specialist surreptitiously behind my almost-closed eyes. She’s breathtakingly beautiful with long wavy tresses, rosy cheeks, and a tall lithe body covered in a long silky blue gown trimmed with lace at the sleeves and hem. Not what I expected, but then again, I’ve never met one of these Specialists before.
On the other hand, the expression on her face is more wry than winsome, more cantankerous than curious. Her feet, covered in soft blue leather flats, tap on my office floor, highlighting her impatience.
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I breathe out. “I sat on the floor, listened to the chimes on my phone’s meditation app, and chanted three times.”
The Specialist stands taller at my confession. In fact, I think she’s now over six feet. “And what,” she whispers, “did you chant?”
My face crimsons. “May the muse cover me with creativity and flowing writing facility.”
“Three times?” the Specialist asks, floating toward me with invisible wings.