Also, my cat did *something* in my shoes. I think he's trying to tell me something.
It was a dark and stormy night....damn, ok, start over.
Mike sat on the couch. "Look, what I'm saying is, you have a headache. If you write with a headache, you're going to fuck it up. No offense."
The woman glared. "None taken. You know, I've never actually written slash."
"Whoa, whoa. No need to get vicious." He yawned. "All I'm saying is, you shouldn't write on an empty brain."
More glaring. "So how well do you know Munch? I'm guessing really well."
"Wrong phrasing, ok? I'm sorry. Look, just sack out and get to it later. Cassie'll understand."
"The hell she will. YOU know her - would Millie understand?"
"Well, maybe - ok, no. But she'd forgive me. Anyhow, you get some rest, and I'll be over here on the steps of St. Pat's having a cold drink, maybe napping out." He stood up and started to leave the metafiction. "Just take your time and hurry it up, willya?"
She sighed, grabbed some excedrin and stretched out again. There would be time, there would be time "Sure. Later, Mike."