Twilight in Atlanta

Hot on the heels of Stephen King’s recent Stephenie Meyer remarks, we got to thinking. Sure, she’s no, well, Stephen King. Hell, she may not even be Danielle Steele, but Steph’s own personal brand of fiction-writing may very well be the best literary thing to happen to us since “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret.” (Yeah, we said it.) Thus, in tribute to Stephenie Meyer (and all the readers who love her), co-creator A will now try her hand at a journal entry, documenting her Wednesday goings-on in the voice of Bella and Edward’s creatoress. We proudly bring you….

Twilight in Atlanta

Prologue

I hadn’t given much thought to what I would eat tonight—though I’d had reason enough in the moments leading up to dinnertime. But even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

The Only Chapter

I woke up in my bed and listened for the sound of the rain. It was silent. A perfect sunny day in Atlanta. The Weather Channel had been wrong. As I stood up to walk to my bathroom, my hands curled into fists at my sides. I knew it was silly to be disappointed, but I’d planned to wear my new rain boots today and now my footwear was left in question. “Heels or flats?” I breathed to my reflection in the mirror.

As if the universe were trying to answer, I tripped over a pair of flats on my way back to the closet. I picked them up and stared at them. Their shiny patent leather was too perfect. Too shiny. It was almost unfair that any shoe should be so shiny. I smiled to myself, knowing they were my shoes. Forever.

After getting dressed, I headed to Starbucks for my morning beverage. Not heeding the baristo’s warning, I took a gluttonous sip of the rich liquid, and pulled back, breathless. The coffee was delicious, there was no doubt, but I knew I had to be careful. He would want me to be careful. The baristo I mean. Stunned, I remained parked in front of the drive-through window. He popped his head back out and smiled. “Be careful, please,” he whispered.

“Sure, sure,” was all I could manage.

The day dragged on. 

It was nearly seven o’clock when I realized I still didn’t have anything for dinner. Begrudgingly, I picked up the phone to order sushi.

The voice at the other end of the line was as familiar as my own. “Two tuna avocado rolls, one avocado cheese roll?” he asked. I could hear him smiling. How did he know? How was it possible for him to reach into my mind and pull the order out from my deepest thoughts without even knowing who I was? Oh right, he saw the caller ID.

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Yes please,” I whispered. Then to my chagrin, he added, “same thing every time.” He hung up laughing.

My hands curled tightly into fists at my sides and I reminded myself to breathe. The man was only doing what he thought was right. And it was. He knew my order like I knew my own mind. We had been through this enough times for him to know exactly what I wanted before I placed the order. But it never failed to excite me and to infuriate me all at once.

When the delivery came, I held my breath. Opening the boxes that contained the beautiful red fish and startlingly green avocado was by far the most exciting part. My throat burned as I stared into the tiny plastic boxes. The most perfect, delicious sushi on the planet sat before me. And it was mine. Plain, ordinary Co-Creator A. How did I ever manage to find such a miracle of food? I hadn’t given much thought to what I would eat tonight—though I’d had reason enough in the moments leading up to dinnertime. But even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

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