It was one of those holiday weekends when everyone leaves town, and they had the little West Village coffee shop all to themselves. They both kept their voices hushed, although there was nobody around to hear them but the waiter.
“He really had no right to cut it short like that,” she said. “Who the hell does he think he is? It’s like he’s playing God.”
“To be fair,” he responded, “from our perspective he is God.”
“Writer, God, whatever. It still stinks. We were on a roll.”
He nodded. “Like I said, I was having a good time. But what can we do? The way I see it, our options are limited. Now I know how Harold Crick must have felt, or Donald Kaufman.”
“Or Betty Parker, for that matter,” she added. “We should unionize. What are they going to do, throw us all in jail?”
He shook his head dispiritedly. “We should be so lucky. It’s like being an illegal immigrant in Arizona. If you’re fictional, then even all your kids are stuck being fictional.”
She blushed. “That almost sounded like a proposal.”
He smiled shyly. “Well ma’am, we haven’t known each other very long.”
“That, my dear, is his fault. Anyway, having a fictional child would not be very productive.”
“Was that an intentional pun?”
“Don’t blame me,” she said, “You know what he’s like. I’m just the messenger.”
“Aren’t we all?” he sighed, “It seems so unfair, when these days even corporations get to be real people.”
“Sociopathic people, but still, I see your point.”
He chuckled. “You know, there is something we can make, as real as anyone on the outside can make.”
“And that would be?”
“Songs. We can write songs.”
Oooh…very cute!