The next day she was early, just a minute or so, but usually you could set your watch by her. She stopped when we met."Thank you for the invitation, but I have a partner who probably wouldn't approve. I'll keep the card, though ... in case I need a friend one day."We continued to smile and wish each other 'good morning'.Dogs don't live as long as humans. Bess slowed down. Her spinal cord began to deteriorate; I'm told it's a common problem for large dogs. It meant she became less and less able to jump up — into the car, or onto a chair. Our walks got shorter, her back end started swaying as she walked and she gave the impression that her back legs were only reluctantly following the rest of her.I still didn't know the woman's name. We met nearer and nearer my home until the day came when I was opening the gate as she passed.She smiled as usual, but then said, "Oh! Do you live there? I've always admired that little house!" Good morning," I replied. "Yes, I've lived here nearly thirty. She’s been my scene partner,” I added for some reason.“Actors?”“Yes. Just high school for me, but it looks like she’s starting a career in film. Just got a plum role.”“Good for her.”“And ... well ... I’m hoping to write her her next role.”“Ambitious,” she said, handing me back the book. “You write plays?”I read her note. “To Melinda. Great success.” And she signed her full name. She had a readable signature.“Just scenes,” I said while reading her note.“What does that mean, just scenes?”“It’s kind of hard to explain. I call them Fragments. They’re like mini plays that hopefully present a complete arc. They’ve never seemed to generate a fuller play. Even a one act.”“Is that what you plan to work on here?”“Poetry,” I said.“Not my area of expertise.”I got the message. And nodded.“What else do you write?” she asked. I started feeling resentment from the others. Whatever.“Short stories,” I told her. “It’s what I started with.”“Any any good?”I shrugged. “Maybe.”“Could you translate them to.
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