Wavedancer commentary, part ten
May. 11th, 2009 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read without the commentary
The rest of the morning went fairly well, as we managed to get two more keepers, an excellent catch for so late in the season. Mr. Jensen decided to cut it short at ten thirty, as Sean was starting to get worn out. I could see the beginnings of a sunburn on his young face. I packed it it and headed for home, trying to sort out my mental list of things to do with a charterless afternoon.
This section has just a little bit of fishing, and then goes back into the romance stuff. This section actually was my favorite section of the whole thing when I first wrote it, so I'm eager to see what my reactions are now.
We arrived at the dock and Mr. Jensen helped me tie the 'Dancer off. I pulled the fish out of the cooler and headed over to the screened in fish-cleaning shack I had helped my father build years ago. "This shouldn't take long," I called to them. "There's a washroom there next to the house that should be unlocked." By the time they'd both finished washing up I'd cleaned the fish and sealed the red fillets in big freezer bags. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly--doesn' really matter, because you can never get that smell fully off--and came out of the shack, where an expectant Sean stood waiting.
Should be just "Dancer" and not "the Dancer." And I'm not consistent about this, either.
Love the detail about not getting the fishy smell off her hands.
"Which one's my fish?" he said, peering intently at the bags.
"The one with the big S on it," I laughed, handing it to him. "You guys have yourselves a safe drive home." I turned to walk away and Sean was already sprinting to the car. Mr. Jensen stopped me and put a bill in my hand, and refused to listen as I protested. He waved goodbye and followed his grandson.
All in all, the charter is a good scene, I think. It does what it needs to do, which is explain how she makes her living. Plus it makes her a little more human. And she interacts with people (gasp!). I think it's good, though it obviously needs a bit more revision.
WTF?! She is protesting a tip?!!!!!! Oh, spare me. This is insane.
I walked back to the boat and unloaded the electronics. A little last minute cleaning and then I snapped the cover on. It was almost noon and the sun was hot despite the cold wind off the bay. It was shaping up to be a warm fall afternoon. I picked up my thermos and jacket and walked into the house. The jacket I hung on the hatrack next to the door and the thermos I set on the counter. I went back into the foyer and pulled the bill Mr. Jensen had handed me out of my pocket. It was a twenty, and I added it in my charter notebook to the amount paid earlier by Lucinda. I dropped the notebook back into its drawer and checked on Mike as I was heading back to my kitchen. He was still asleep on the couch, and I picked another blanket up off the back of a chair and added it. His jaw betrayed a day and a half's worth of stubble.
She records the tip into the price of the charter? Holy cow, the IRS must absolutely adore her beyond belief.
And his betraying jaw made me laugh like an idiot.
As I was not very hungry and he was still asleep I decided to go out to the boatshed and work instead. I put my jacket back on and poured myself another thermos of coffee, mentally thanking Mike again for buying me a coffeepot with a timer. The walk to the boatshed was short and cold, and I swore when I saw it because the door was hanging wide open again. I'd fixed the latch three times already. I stepped inside and flipped on the lights.
MOAR FORESHADOWING OOOO
It was spacious, with enough room for my entire flotilla. A little chaotic at the end of the season, of course, with the cleaning and winterizing, but warm enough to work without the electric heater on. Which was fine with me, as I had already made up my mind to strip and revarnish the Celestial, and I was always a little uneasy about turning the heater on while I was doing that. I went through the tool cabinet until I found my folder of sandpaper and picked out a couple different grades. It was tough work, and it required a fine touch to strip the old varnish off, but I was up to it. It was always thrilling to me to take something and render it new and better, and thoughts of a well polished Celestial put me in a good mood. The arm movements possessed an inherent rhythm that was infectious to me. I took great pride in being able to do such a professional job. It always drew compliments from the other captains. I'd even twice been invited to speak at the Lake Michigan Wooden Boating Club, though I'd turned them down.
Of course she's teh roxxors at scrubbing a boat. Of course she's been asked to speak at the LMWBC. Whatever the hell that is. Worst made up club name ever, that's what it is.
I was humming and almost finished with one side of the boat when I suddenly heard the door open explosively. It was Mike, and he looked angry, fire dancing in his eyes.
grah! Seriously. I don't think I can take more of the inappropriate levels of anger in this thing.
"What's up?" I asked, as casually as possible. I realized that I was clenching the sheet of sandpaper I was holding, and I forced myself to relax.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked coolly.
"No," I said, matching his tone perfectly, "but I've a feeling you're going to tell me."
"I've a feeling" is awkward and does not sound like Sarah.
"It is," he said with an ominous pause, "almost nine o'clock at night."
"Oh." I was a little surprised. "Really."
I'm surprised, too. There's nothing that really makes it seem like she's been sanding for eleven hours straight. She's inhuman to be able to do that, anyway. Sanding by hand is rough work.
"Really." He crossed his arms. "I've been waiting, and waiting, thinking you were out on a charter, until I noticed 'Dancer at the dock."
Mike must be the most unobservant person ever, considering that the docks are in plain sight of their kitchen windows. It would make much more sense to have him think she's gone into town for something, and then eventually notice that her car isn't missing. Even moreso, considering that he totally knows about her antisocial tendencies, none of this makes sense. He would have figured it out a helluva lot sooner.
"I'm sorry about that," I apologized. "I started sanding...I guess I just lost track of time." We both just kind of stared at each other for a moment. "Have you eaten dinner yet?" I asked calmly.
"I was waiting for you," he replied. "How was lunch, anyways?"
"Lunch?" I was confused.
"I knew it." He raked a hand through his hair. "What did you do, just go right out to the shed and start sanding?"
Ooh, good job tricking her there, Mike!
"Is this a problem?" I said icily, eyeing him directly.
"Yes!" he shot. There was another uncomfortable silence, and I was unsure of what to say.
"Look," I said. "Let me just finish the rest of this side, and I'll--I'll grill the steaks. We'll eat dinner on the porch--"
"I really don't think you need to finish that side," he interrupted. "It's already pretty late."
"Fine," I said tiredly. Who does he think he is, ordering me around like that? I thought. But I simply nodded in agreement and set the sandpaper down on the workbench.
This would be so much better without her glaringly adolescent thought here. Well, it would be better without so much fire and drama from Mike. I can't see him reacting this strongly.
Also, as far as ordering her around, what the hell does "we'll eat dinner on the porch" sound like? Yep. An order.
I do have to play devil's advocate here, just for a moment. Put through another lens, I can see Mike growing increasingly fond of her, but hesitant to approach her about possibly dating again, especially considering they work together. I can see him starting to worry more and more about her. At first, she's just a workaholic roommate boss, and he can just choose to not care about her staying up until 2 am, rearranging her lures. But now that he's growing more and more attached to her, he's starting to get worried about her as a person. Her limited social interactions with others, her disregard for her own health and safety in relation to the business...it really would upset him. Could this anger be realistic? Perhaps, but I think that it's too much. It overbalances the writing here.
It had warmed up considerably outside, and I yawned sleepily as I went in and retrieved the steaks from my fridge. I started up the grill and sat down on one of the redwood chairs, trying to enjoy this last taste of summer. A lone moth aimlessly courted the porchlight. I yawned again, thinking dreamily of the coming winter and relishing not having the snow removal business anymore.
For some reason I'm a little intrigued by the poor moth. Symbolic of poor Mike, beating himself senseless against an uncaring Sarah?
I got up and put the steaks on the grill, making a few minor adjustments to the heat level. I turned to look as the screen door slammed shut and Mike walked onto the porch wearing only a pair of old blue jeans. My breath caught at the unexpected sight of him; even after three seasons I was forced to admit that he was easily the finest man Moray had to offer. At just over six feet, his well-muscled lithe frame and blonde good looks always caused women to stop and stare, though he never seemed to notice. He must have noticed the odd look I had because his smile slowly faded. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly.
Um. I can take a guess. You were just yelling at her about five minutes ago? Seriously, they both have short-term emotional-state memory loss.
"You're going to give Mrs. Champlain a heart attack," I answered, but I couldn't bring a teasing tone to my voice. The electricity of his presence was too intense.
He frowned. "I don't see how, unless she has a high-powered telescope." The Champlains, our nearest neighbor, lived almost a half mile away through a thick screen of trees.
It was though I was balanced upon a razor's edge, and the tension wrapped around my heart and squeezed tight. Bitterness flowed heavily through me. "Then you'll catch your death," I snapped, turning back to the grill to hide my embarrassment.
The screen door slammed, and I released my breath, aware of the sharp edge of longing I felt. I won't do this again, I told myself harshly, I won't endure that pain again for anybody. I deliberately brought to mind the cruel things he'd said to me on that night in the cove so many years ago, and slowly the ache receded. The screen door reopened and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing a black T-shirt that did nothing to hide his considerable physical appeal. He sat down easily on the long redwood couch and propped up his feet on one arm, taking a sip of coffee. I could feel his eyes watching me, trying to puzzle out my grey mood.
I tried to concentrate on the steaks, but to my surprise I found myself blinking in an effort not to cry. I furiously rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
Y'know, I still like this. I like that his caring (er, and his physique, lol) has broken through her Wall O' Control and that she finds herself suddenly vulnerable to his presence. I like that she is so affected by the events of the last few days and it's finally breaking her down, but she's not bawling in the boatshed; she simply sheds a tear or two and then scrubs them away just as quickly.
The night air was thick with tension, and I wanted to will the steaks to cook faster. Mike swung his legs off the couch and sat with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, looking absently at the boatshed.
His steak was done, and I slipped it onto a plate and held it out for him to take. Instead he leaned forward and looked at me thoughtfully. I frowned and set the plate on the table harder than I intended to and turned back to the grill. I heard him stand up and go back inside, and I felt a quick stab of guilt. I was spoiling this, probably our last meal outside this year.
The screen door reopened and he came up behind me and gently set a fork and steak knife on my plate. The redwood couch creaked as he sat down again. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it was no use. I turned the grill off and sat down with my steak at the other end of the long table, though I usually sat next to him on the couch. He looked up and nudged towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out. It was a nice gesture, as I got cold easily and I was already starting to freeze now that I was away from the grill. I picked up the coffee and held it to warm my hand as I took another bite of steak, which was delicious.
Wait a minute. The whole meal is a hunk of steak and a cup of coffee? At nine o'clock at night? That does not sound appetizing in the least.
Also, I thought it was supposed to be super warm just a few minutes ago. This is another example of bending the weather to the plot, lol.
Also also, the weird sentence structure is super apparent in this section. I have had a beta ask me if English was my second language, which was based on my strange sentence structures. One look at He looked up and nudged towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out makes me understand why.
It was late, and a cooling wind was hastening winter's first foray into fall. I could hear small waves hitting the beach. The weather reports I had listened to on my morning charter were confirming Mike's storm to break at the end of the week. I hoped it would wait until I finished up the last couple of charters I had, and it reminded me of my early charter tomorrow. I checked my watch, wincing at the late hour. I stood up and closed the grill, picking up my plate and coffee on the way back into the house.
Overall, I still like the steak scene. I would like it better without the silliness of the boatshed scene, and I'd like it better if it revealed a little more tenderness between the two, but then again--maybe this style does work. I don't know.
I do like Sarah revealing some emotion, that's for certain.
On to part eleven
Read this section without the commentary
The rest of the morning went fairly well, as we managed to get two more keepers, an excellent catch for so late in the season. Mr. Jensen decided to cut it short at ten thirty, as Sean was starting to get worn out. I could see the beginnings of a sunburn on his young face. I packed it it and headed for home, trying to sort out my mental list of things to do with a charterless afternoon.
This section has just a little bit of fishing, and then goes back into the romance stuff. This section actually was my favorite section of the whole thing when I first wrote it, so I'm eager to see what my reactions are now.
We arrived at the dock and Mr. Jensen helped me tie the 'Dancer off. I pulled the fish out of the cooler and headed over to the screened in fish-cleaning shack I had helped my father build years ago. "This shouldn't take long," I called to them. "There's a washroom there next to the house that should be unlocked." By the time they'd both finished washing up I'd cleaned the fish and sealed the red fillets in big freezer bags. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly--doesn' really matter, because you can never get that smell fully off--and came out of the shack, where an expectant Sean stood waiting.
Should be just "Dancer" and not "the Dancer." And I'm not consistent about this, either.
Love the detail about not getting the fishy smell off her hands.
"Which one's my fish?" he said, peering intently at the bags.
"The one with the big S on it," I laughed, handing it to him. "You guys have yourselves a safe drive home." I turned to walk away and Sean was already sprinting to the car. Mr. Jensen stopped me and put a bill in my hand, and refused to listen as I protested. He waved goodbye and followed his grandson.
All in all, the charter is a good scene, I think. It does what it needs to do, which is explain how she makes her living. Plus it makes her a little more human. And she interacts with people (gasp!). I think it's good, though it obviously needs a bit more revision.
WTF?! She is protesting a tip?!!!!!! Oh, spare me. This is insane.
I walked back to the boat and unloaded the electronics. A little last minute cleaning and then I snapped the cover on. It was almost noon and the sun was hot despite the cold wind off the bay. It was shaping up to be a warm fall afternoon. I picked up my thermos and jacket and walked into the house. The jacket I hung on the hatrack next to the door and the thermos I set on the counter. I went back into the foyer and pulled the bill Mr. Jensen had handed me out of my pocket. It was a twenty, and I added it in my charter notebook to the amount paid earlier by Lucinda. I dropped the notebook back into its drawer and checked on Mike as I was heading back to my kitchen. He was still asleep on the couch, and I picked another blanket up off the back of a chair and added it. His jaw betrayed a day and a half's worth of stubble.
She records the tip into the price of the charter? Holy cow, the IRS must absolutely adore her beyond belief.
And his betraying jaw made me laugh like an idiot.
As I was not very hungry and he was still asleep I decided to go out to the boatshed and work instead. I put my jacket back on and poured myself another thermos of coffee, mentally thanking Mike again for buying me a coffeepot with a timer. The walk to the boatshed was short and cold, and I swore when I saw it because the door was hanging wide open again. I'd fixed the latch three times already. I stepped inside and flipped on the lights.
MOAR FORESHADOWING OOOO
It was spacious, with enough room for my entire flotilla. A little chaotic at the end of the season, of course, with the cleaning and winterizing, but warm enough to work without the electric heater on. Which was fine with me, as I had already made up my mind to strip and revarnish the Celestial, and I was always a little uneasy about turning the heater on while I was doing that. I went through the tool cabinet until I found my folder of sandpaper and picked out a couple different grades. It was tough work, and it required a fine touch to strip the old varnish off, but I was up to it. It was always thrilling to me to take something and render it new and better, and thoughts of a well polished Celestial put me in a good mood. The arm movements possessed an inherent rhythm that was infectious to me. I took great pride in being able to do such a professional job. It always drew compliments from the other captains. I'd even twice been invited to speak at the Lake Michigan Wooden Boating Club, though I'd turned them down.
Of course she's teh roxxors at scrubbing a boat. Of course she's been asked to speak at the LMWBC. Whatever the hell that is. Worst made up club name ever, that's what it is.
I was humming and almost finished with one side of the boat when I suddenly heard the door open explosively. It was Mike, and he looked angry, fire dancing in his eyes.
grah! Seriously. I don't think I can take more of the inappropriate levels of anger in this thing.
"What's up?" I asked, as casually as possible. I realized that I was clenching the sheet of sandpaper I was holding, and I forced myself to relax.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked coolly.
"No," I said, matching his tone perfectly, "but I've a feeling you're going to tell me."
"I've a feeling" is awkward and does not sound like Sarah.
"It is," he said with an ominous pause, "almost nine o'clock at night."
"Oh." I was a little surprised. "Really."
I'm surprised, too. There's nothing that really makes it seem like she's been sanding for eleven hours straight. She's inhuman to be able to do that, anyway. Sanding by hand is rough work.
"Really." He crossed his arms. "I've been waiting, and waiting, thinking you were out on a charter, until I noticed 'Dancer at the dock."
Mike must be the most unobservant person ever, considering that the docks are in plain sight of their kitchen windows. It would make much more sense to have him think she's gone into town for something, and then eventually notice that her car isn't missing. Even moreso, considering that he totally knows about her antisocial tendencies, none of this makes sense. He would have figured it out a helluva lot sooner.
"I'm sorry about that," I apologized. "I started sanding...I guess I just lost track of time." We both just kind of stared at each other for a moment. "Have you eaten dinner yet?" I asked calmly.
"I was waiting for you," he replied. "How was lunch, anyways?"
"Lunch?" I was confused.
"I knew it." He raked a hand through his hair. "What did you do, just go right out to the shed and start sanding?"
Ooh, good job tricking her there, Mike!
"Is this a problem?" I said icily, eyeing him directly.
"Yes!" he shot. There was another uncomfortable silence, and I was unsure of what to say.
"Look," I said. "Let me just finish the rest of this side, and I'll--I'll grill the steaks. We'll eat dinner on the porch--"
"I really don't think you need to finish that side," he interrupted. "It's already pretty late."
"Fine," I said tiredly. Who does he think he is, ordering me around like that? I thought. But I simply nodded in agreement and set the sandpaper down on the workbench.
This would be so much better without her glaringly adolescent thought here. Well, it would be better without so much fire and drama from Mike. I can't see him reacting this strongly.
Also, as far as ordering her around, what the hell does "we'll eat dinner on the porch" sound like? Yep. An order.
I do have to play devil's advocate here, just for a moment. Put through another lens, I can see Mike growing increasingly fond of her, but hesitant to approach her about possibly dating again, especially considering they work together. I can see him starting to worry more and more about her. At first, she's just a workaholic roommate boss, and he can just choose to not care about her staying up until 2 am, rearranging her lures. But now that he's growing more and more attached to her, he's starting to get worried about her as a person. Her limited social interactions with others, her disregard for her own health and safety in relation to the business...it really would upset him. Could this anger be realistic? Perhaps, but I think that it's too much. It overbalances the writing here.
It had warmed up considerably outside, and I yawned sleepily as I went in and retrieved the steaks from my fridge. I started up the grill and sat down on one of the redwood chairs, trying to enjoy this last taste of summer. A lone moth aimlessly courted the porchlight. I yawned again, thinking dreamily of the coming winter and relishing not having the snow removal business anymore.
For some reason I'm a little intrigued by the poor moth. Symbolic of poor Mike, beating himself senseless against an uncaring Sarah?
I got up and put the steaks on the grill, making a few minor adjustments to the heat level. I turned to look as the screen door slammed shut and Mike walked onto the porch wearing only a pair of old blue jeans. My breath caught at the unexpected sight of him; even after three seasons I was forced to admit that he was easily the finest man Moray had to offer. At just over six feet, his well-muscled lithe frame and blonde good looks always caused women to stop and stare, though he never seemed to notice. He must have noticed the odd look I had because his smile slowly faded. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly.
Um. I can take a guess. You were just yelling at her about five minutes ago? Seriously, they both have short-term emotional-state memory loss.
"You're going to give Mrs. Champlain a heart attack," I answered, but I couldn't bring a teasing tone to my voice. The electricity of his presence was too intense.
He frowned. "I don't see how, unless she has a high-powered telescope." The Champlains, our nearest neighbor, lived almost a half mile away through a thick screen of trees.
It was though I was balanced upon a razor's edge, and the tension wrapped around my heart and squeezed tight. Bitterness flowed heavily through me. "Then you'll catch your death," I snapped, turning back to the grill to hide my embarrassment.
The screen door slammed, and I released my breath, aware of the sharp edge of longing I felt. I won't do this again, I told myself harshly, I won't endure that pain again for anybody. I deliberately brought to mind the cruel things he'd said to me on that night in the cove so many years ago, and slowly the ache receded. The screen door reopened and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing a black T-shirt that did nothing to hide his considerable physical appeal. He sat down easily on the long redwood couch and propped up his feet on one arm, taking a sip of coffee. I could feel his eyes watching me, trying to puzzle out my grey mood.
I tried to concentrate on the steaks, but to my surprise I found myself blinking in an effort not to cry. I furiously rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
Y'know, I still like this. I like that his caring (er, and his physique, lol) has broken through her Wall O' Control and that she finds herself suddenly vulnerable to his presence. I like that she is so affected by the events of the last few days and it's finally breaking her down, but she's not bawling in the boatshed; she simply sheds a tear or two and then scrubs them away just as quickly.
The night air was thick with tension, and I wanted to will the steaks to cook faster. Mike swung his legs off the couch and sat with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, looking absently at the boatshed.
His steak was done, and I slipped it onto a plate and held it out for him to take. Instead he leaned forward and looked at me thoughtfully. I frowned and set the plate on the table harder than I intended to and turned back to the grill. I heard him stand up and go back inside, and I felt a quick stab of guilt. I was spoiling this, probably our last meal outside this year.
The screen door reopened and he came up behind me and gently set a fork and steak knife on my plate. The redwood couch creaked as he sat down again. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it was no use. I turned the grill off and sat down with my steak at the other end of the long table, though I usually sat next to him on the couch. He looked up and nudged towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out. It was a nice gesture, as I got cold easily and I was already starting to freeze now that I was away from the grill. I picked up the coffee and held it to warm my hand as I took another bite of steak, which was delicious.
Wait a minute. The whole meal is a hunk of steak and a cup of coffee? At nine o'clock at night? That does not sound appetizing in the least.
Also, I thought it was supposed to be super warm just a few minutes ago. This is another example of bending the weather to the plot, lol.
Also also, the weird sentence structure is super apparent in this section. I have had a beta ask me if English was my second language, which was based on my strange sentence structures. One look at He looked up and nudged towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out makes me understand why.
It was late, and a cooling wind was hastening winter's first foray into fall. I could hear small waves hitting the beach. The weather reports I had listened to on my morning charter were confirming Mike's storm to break at the end of the week. I hoped it would wait until I finished up the last couple of charters I had, and it reminded me of my early charter tomorrow. I checked my watch, wincing at the late hour. I stood up and closed the grill, picking up my plate and coffee on the way back into the house.
Overall, I still like the steak scene. I would like it better without the silliness of the boatshed scene, and I'd like it better if it revealed a little more tenderness between the two, but then again--maybe this style does work. I don't know.
I do like Sarah revealing some emotion, that's for certain.
On to part eleven
Read this section without the commentary
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-12 01:35 am (UTC)Also - Lake Michigan Wooden Boating Club - Okay, I know this isn't that far off of reality since people would probably distinguish wooden boats from other kinds and have it be a meaningful distinction. But there's something immensely LOL-worthy, to a non-boating person like myself, of the "Wooden" being there as a qualifier. It's one of those little details that reminds me of fandom, where we get all het up about these details of who is in which group of fans depending on preference for something or other, and then the outsiders are just going "WTF, why does it matter what the boat's made of?!?"
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-12 02:39 am (UTC)Weirdly enough, I hated steak at the time! So it's even stranger.
But there's something immensely LOL-worthy, to a non-boating person like myself, of the "Wooden" being there as a qualifier. It's one of those little details that reminds me of fandom, where we get all het up about these details of who is in which group of fans depending on preference for something or other, and then the outsiders are just going "WTF, why does it matter what the boat's made of?!?"
*snorts* Exactly! It's totally head-scratchy to everyone else, but to boating types, you are basically talking about the Great Divide. There are yachts and there are cruisers, and there are wooden boats and...everything else. *nodnod*
I'm so glad you're still reading this! *hugs*
One more section left, and then the summary, if I have time before I leave...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-12 02:37 am (UTC)Anyway, the short version:
In a town near me is the Port Fairy Wooden and Classic Boat Society, which makes the Lake Michigan Wooden Boat Club a stunning piece of realism. (The PFW&CBS has an annual Wooden Boat Festival, with the confounding slogan More than just wooden boats!)
I also don't quite understand why Mike couldn't cook his own dinner. I mean, I see that he was waiting for her and concerned that she ate too and that she would be likely to have a hissy fit that he shouldn't cook because meals are part of his board, but... dude, could you turn on the grill as you go past? Or grab a tomato on your shirtless way out, yeah? Or was coming out shirtless his way of bringing beefcake to go with the steak? :-)
But yes, I liked this chapter, even if Mike and Sarah need to work on communicating between Nice and Shouty. I really liked the charter scene from the last chapter, though. Perhaps this should have been Wavedancer: A Fishing Story?
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-12 02:45 am (UTC)Aw! LJ, you bastard, give her back her comment!
(The PFW&CBS has an annual Wooden Boat Festival, with the confounding slogan More than just wooden boats!)
*laughs so hard I nearly fall out of the chair*
Best. Confounding. Slogan. Ever.
The mind boggles at what else could be included. Parsnips? Lemmings?
I also don't quite understand why Mike couldn't cook his own dinner. I mean, I see that he was waiting for her and concerned that she ate too and that she would be likely to have a hissy fit that he shouldn't cook because meals are part of his board, but... dude, could you turn on the grill as you go past? Or grab a tomato on your shirtless way out, yeah? Or was coming out shirtless his way of bringing beefcake to go with the steak? :-)
bwahahaha!
It is so fascinating to have these insights, honestly. My brain at the time couldn't have handled any of it, but my brain now? is amused. I absolutely love that you point this out.
I think she might have said that she would grill as kind of a "I'll make it up to you" thing. But still, why did he have to wait? Very silly.
And I'm so totally cracking up about grabbing the tomato.
But yes, I liked this chapter, even if Mike and Sarah need to work on communicating between Nice and Shouty. I really liked the charter scene from the last chapter, though. Perhaps this should have been Wavedancer: A Fishing Story?
I can't believe how extreme the Nice and the Shouty is. It just goes back and forth like a crazy yo-yo.
You enjoyed the fishing? Thank goodness! I really do get anxious about my explaining because I'm never sure that I get the info across, and that it's gotten across in an entertaining way, lol.
And considering that the romance is so bizarre, it probably should have been a fishing story. *laughs and laughs*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-17 04:57 am (UTC)ahahaha - I <3 you ^_^
Steak and coffee as a meal sounds fine to me. And I agree - her not bawling was very cool.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-06-13 05:59 pm (UTC)I think if I ate steak and coffee at nine o'clock at night I'd be as sick as a dog, and have insomnia. But then again, with as much coffee as she drinks, she's probably used to it. lol.
I totally love the not-bawling. I think it's my favorite part of the scene.