Julia, the editor, called Georgina, made her remarks, paused as if waiting to hear the sound they made when they fell into the space between them, made some more remarks. Her tone was a close match for the way she had looked when the two of them had met for coffee. “Let’s say lunched,” Julia had said. “It’s more dignified.” But Georgina hadn’t eaten anything. She had been too nervous. She had been living with the book for more than a year at that point, and she needed to know that it might find favor. It had. Julia had made a few broad recommendations, more time on the banks of the Ganges, a little less humor close upon the sex scenes, and Georgina had left that lunch at an altitude. Two more years had passed since, and Julia was calling with a verdict. The gist was that the book needed work. At least one major character was “drawn flatly.” A new beginning would certainly help, and a new ending might. It would likely miss its publication date but “you can't put a stopwatch on art.” All would be memorialized in a letter to follow. Nothing was said about the Ganges or sex, and Georgina located a filament of pride in the weave of despair. She had satisfied those demands. Why would the new ones be any different? But Julia’s voice was further and further away and that was when Georgina realized that she was also falling into the space in the conversation, that she had already fallen, and that she was, if still alive, also dead.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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