KW 09:Shot on Location by Laurence Shames

then said almost apologetically, “I used to.”
    “Used to?” Joey said.
    Jake gave a little laugh. “Hey, no one dreams of being a ghostwriter when he grows up. I wrote my own stuff. Sure I did. Just didn’t quite work out.”
    He briefly looked down. His eyes landed on the chihuahua, which had lifted its nose onto the table and was sniffing at Bert’s plate.
    “How come?” the old man asked.
    “Oh boy,” said Jake. “I haven’t talked about this in a lot of years.”
    He nudged his glass in Joey’s direction. Joey filled it for him.
    “I think the problem was that I cared too much. I wanted every word to be perfect. I tried so hard to make it perfect that it probably wasn’t very good. At least that’s what a few people told me.”
    “Who?” said Sandra. “What people?”
    “A few editors and agents.”
    “Fuck do they know?” Bert said. “’Scuse my language, Sandra.”
    Jake made a sound somewhere between a dry laugh and a snort. “Fair question.”
    Sandra, trying to be helpful, said, “Well, it all seems to have turned out for the best.”
    Jake didn’t quite know what to say to that. He tossed her a smile that was meant as thanks but felt uncomfortable at the edges of his mouth.
    Sandra, not quite comfortable herself, went on. “I mean, you seem to have a nice career. You get interesting work —”
    “Which way felt better?” Bert put in, once again a little off the beat, unintentionally abrupt, blurting out a fleeting thought before it vanished.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Which was more fun? I mean, getting paid is good, money’s good, I’m not knockin’ money, plus it’s none of my business and all of that, but I’m sittin’ here, I’m listenin’, and I can’t help wondering, just wondering ya know, if maybe you were better off before. Happier, I mean. But hey, sorry, none of my business. I’ll shut up now. Sorry.”
    Jake picked up his wineglass, put it down again. Crickets rasped. Tree toads made their miniature bleating sounds.
    After a long moment, Sandra said. “Well. Anybody ready for dessert?

17.
    “You like Negronis?” Claire asked.
    “Don’t know. Never had one.”
    “But you like martinis.”
    “That would be a yes.”
    “Then have a Negroni. Gin, Campari, a little vermouth. It’s like a killer martini in a pink tutu.”
    “Sounds a little strong for lunch.”
    “Oh, it is, believe me. And I almost never drink at lunch.”
    “Then why —”
    “Because I’m furious.”
    They were sitting on the oceanfront deck at Louie’s Backyard. It seemed a hard day to stay mad. A cool breeze was perfectly balancing the heat of the sun. Ripples that now and then spilled over into tiny whitecaps were chasing each other across the surface of the sea. Green-tinged clouds hung near the horizon, never coming any closer.
    Jake asked what she was furious about.
    “We’ll get to that. How are you?”
    It was seemingly the simplest of questions, generally calling for a scripted one-word reply, but in that moment Jake found it a stupefying riddle that he didn’t want to try to answer all at once. He said, “We’ll get to that too. After the Negronis.”
    Waiting for the drinks, they looked out at the twinkling water and, somewhat shyly, at each other. Claire was wearing a blue sundress that tied behind her neck. Her bare arms were toned but slender; there was a pretty arc where her neck flowed down to her collarbones.
    Jake said, “You look different today.”
    She flushed just slightly at the comment. “Get to wear my play clothes. And I’m not carrying the goddamn clipboard.”
    “Your hair looks different too,” he ventured. It was softer today, freer. Wisps of it were lifted by the breeze and waved against her cheek.
    She flushed a tiny bit more but said, “We aren’t on a date. Agreed?”
    To Jake this didn’t exactly sound like scolding and it didn’t exactly sound like teasing, though it did sound just a little bit like both. He said, “Agreed. Just making