“How's the story going?” she asked as she stirred her coffee.
“Why do we always meet here?” I answered her question with a question.
“Because you never suggest any other place.”
I looked around. Any place would be better than this coffee place. At least another cafe that served decent coffee. Perhaps a bookstore. As I started listing off all the possible places that we could sit down and chat, Christine looked at me and said, “You never answered my question.”
“I started writing if that's what you're asking.”
“What's it about?”
“It's going to be a mystery novel about a man named Dillion Green.”
“Why Dillion Green?”
“It was the first name that came into my head – that and he paints. Green. Paints. Get it?”
“I got it, it wasn't clever, but I got it.”