“What do you think, Mae?” Harold peered at his wife, trying to gauge her reaction as she read his manuscript.
“About what, Harold? The fact that you wrote a whole bloody book about me?”
This was not the reaction that he was hoping for. “It’s not about you, sweetie. It’s fiction.”
“Right,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m to assume that ‘Maybelline with red hair’ isn’t about me?”
“You’re more of a strawberry blonde,” he assured her. “Besides, ‘Mae’ isn’t short for anything, certainly not Maybelline.”
She rolled her eyes. Harold knew he was in trouble.
Mae continued, “Henry and Maybelline, who have a perfect marriage except for the fact that Maybelline belts out an enthusiastic rendition of “If I had a Hammer” every single morning in the shower. It slowly drives him crazy over the course of 10 years.”
“And?” Harold asked, after a moment of silence.
“That’s about me, Harold! Just admit it!”
Harold chose not to answer. Mae continued, growing more and more angry. “We’ve been married for 7 years and instead of talking about this, you air your grievances in a book? What else is in this thing?” Mae crumbled up the papers in frustration.
Harold spoke, this time less confidently. “It’s… not about you?”
Mae growled, “If I had a hammer I’d bash your bloody skull in!”
Harold grabbed a piece of crumpled paper and scribbled something down furiously.
“What now?” Mae asked.
Resigned, Harold answered quietly, “That was a good line, I think I can use it.”
