Our Dialogue assignment was to write a short scene using—what else?—dialogue. This is not my strong suit, as I tend to be more of an interior monologue sort of person. In all my stories, I like my main character to be ME. This was my best effort:
Last Sunday morning I lay in bed next to my husband.
“I’m lying here in a pool of my own sweat!” I complained, by way of a morning greeting.
“Well, it could be worse,” he said, cheerily.
“What do you mean?”
“Sweat’s not so bad. You could be lying in a pool of something worse.”
“Well,” he paused for effect, “you could be lying in a pool of your own blood.”
I thought about this for a minute.
“How much blood are we talking about?”
“Using your own words, enough to form a pool.”
“Hmmm. That could be quite a lot of blood.”
“Or you could be lying in a pool of something else,” he offered.
The possibilities ran through my mind: vomit, urine…or worse: My God! I could be lying in a pool of white zinfandel! Vile stuff. I was sickened immediately at the thought.
I rolled over and kissed him lightly.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For being such an optimist.”
Then I leapt out of bed, forgetting my previous discomfort—which seemed so trivial now, considering all the terrifying alternatives—to prepare the morning mimosas.