I got dressed in a way that I thought might be casual but attractive, went to the velvet foam coffee place, and sat there with my latte, listening in to nearby conversations. Music, as usual, made it hard to hear. I suppose most people prefer that. I usually do prefer that others not be able to hear all that I say. But nevertheless, I strained to hear what I could.

I got this gem:

"It gets a little confrontational when I want to watch tv or stuff. She always wants to go somewhere. She was all drunk last night and tried to explain it."

"You might as well talk to your car."

"Your car doesn't smell like alchol, either."

"Or make stupid remarks".

I felt I had gathered a little treasure there. I hunger for good conversation. As I listened in on another couple, heard the intensity, the passion, in their voices, I wanted to be a part of it, wanted to join them. How strange would that be, to say, "Hi. I overheard some of what you said, and..." no, not a good introduction.

I took the first line of that short exchange above and wrote about a page and a half of a scene. Realizing that real writing means making it come alive, be complete, mean something. I don't know. I think it's a start, just to write what feels right at the time.