Dialogue

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:

Optimist

       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.”

       “Like what?”

      “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 what?”

       “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.

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