Pages Written... 4+ rewrites...
Listening to... the kids
Exercise Done... 1 hr yoga

He interrupted my concentration. I'd already finished some minor changes in chapter 2, had gone on to chapter 7 and realized that I needed to *add* two whole scenes before I could get to where I had originally started chapter 7. So I began, slowly, the music pounding in my ears, finding my rhythm, when I noticed I was being stared at.

I look up and there he is. My age or older; looks like a rock 'n roller, some hard edges to him, but attractive. Fluffy dark brown hair that keeps getting into his eyes, grooves in his cheeks. He's just sitting in the comfy chairs near the far window, right in my eyesight, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, dark grey tennies. He looks away, picks up his coffee.

I turn back to my laptop, disturbed. Do I recognize him? I try to concentrate, then out of the corner of my eye I see him leave, noting absently that he's tall, slender, moves gracefully. I mean, good, he's gone. I write a paragraph, then another. I look over at where he'd been sitting, and his coffee mug was still there. Loser, I thought. Doesn't even clean up after himself. Then I catch sight of his brown leather briefcase-type bag, still there by the chair. Oh.

Damn. I chew on my knuckle, sip my coffee. Eke out a sentence until I see him coming back. For some stupid reason, I'm relieved. He settles with three big books on something. He's too far away, though, and I can't see what type of book he's reading. He looks up at me and I quickly look back at my screen.

He's changed clothes. When I look back, I realize that. His jacket is neatly hung over the arm of the comfy chair, and he's wearing a black tee shirt with some band on the front, with MOS written in red above the band's picture. Damn. He must be somebody famous, and I can't figure it out. He's got the look of Steven Tyler, but his face isn't that exaggerated. His lips are normal-sized. No, not Steven Tyler.

He reaches for his coffee cup without looking, almost knocks it over, finally looks and grabs. Looks up at me. I lower my eyes, slower this time, and write another line. Stupid. At this rate I'll never get the 8 - heck, 6 - pages I'd planned on. I figure he's only looking at me because I'm the only human in his eyesight - rather, there are people behind me, but I'm first in his line of sight.

I'm restless, concentration gone, so I get up, head to the bathroom. My image in the mirror is as bad as I feared - UCLA sweatshirt, lank hair, no makeup and still wearing blue capri exercise pants with purple wool ski socks and white tennies. Quite the sartorial getup. I sigh, despondent, and go back to my computer.

I type enough in one go to actually finish two pages. Yay, me. Then I stare at the man. My one-on-one time with the mirror has cured me of any such 'sweep me off my feet' daydreams, and yet he does look familiar. Of course, by this time I've been staring at him, and dodging his looks, and catching him staring at me, for the past 40 minutes. I curse under my breath, punch the button for the music, and turn my gaze resolutely to the screen.

Another page. The next time I look up at him, it takes me awhile to focus as he's changed again, this time into a black sweatshirt. As I watch, he looks at me and draws up the attached hood. Looks back down at his very big, very heavy book, and turns the pages of the index, as if he's actually doing research.

I check back, find I've only done 3 3/4 pages. I curse, this time loudly enough to disturb the older folks sitting at the table next to me. I grit my teeth, and write, knowing full well that it's been over an hour since he started this stupid staring contest, and that I'll be rewriting most of what I'd written that day since he showed up.

At 4 1/2 pages, my patience ends. He's no longer looking up at me, and I've spun my creative wheels long enough. Amused at myself, I pack up, sketch him a salute that he doesn't see, and leave.

I still don't know who he is, and boy do I wish I had access to a camera phone for I'd dearly love to put his picture up here.

Bastard ruined my concentration. I'm sure I'll find him again in my dreams.