In case you missed it, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Reluctant. (Also, this is completely unrelated, but it's my first leap-year post. How cool.)

Here's the gist (From: The 3 am Epiphany):
First-person narration? After writing this blog for so long? Piece of cake. But not using the first-person pronouns? Holy crap. A lot harder than I thought it would be. The I's and me's wound up slipping out all over the place. And I had to change the trajectory of this snippet a couple of times in order to fit the narration. I guess it's difficult for me (me, me, me!) to accept the premise of a narrator who isn't primarily and absolutely interested in himself above all other things. A definite leap for any blogger. Anyway, here goes ...


The Lovers Lane Tom Thumb near The Village was a busy place at six on a weeknight. Single twenty-somethings picking up TV dinners after work. SMU kids buying beer and cigarettes for parties. Hipster couples discussing the merits of ginger root ... Did you know, honey, that ginger root can do all sorts of great things ... relieve nausea, reduce cholesterol, fight inflammation. It can even boost the immune system. This was all explained in great detail by the pale-skinned, mid-20s guy in a blue winter hat speaking loudly to his ... let's see, what might she be? Girlfriend? No, too familiar with one another for just "girlfriend." This woman, this small elfin creature with pointy nose and cute little rosy cheeks and a matching blue winter hat ... this was his wife. Ding, ding, ding. Twenty points to the tall, slightly overweight, nerdy-looking dude with the thick, black glasses and long nose. The woman did, in fact, know that ginger root had these health benefits and, she added, it was also great served in a chicken fondue. Well, shit. Perhaps they should get some. Guy: Yeah, but you're not supposed to eat ginger root when you could be pregnant. Remember? The nutritionist advised us against it. Woman: Aww, honey. You're always looking out for me. Then there was a kiss, this benign little peck that had all the passion of something you'd give your grandma. Fucking married people.

This was clearly a couple who knew a thing or two about ginger root ... and blue winter hats. Their conversation was enough of a distraction that I failed to notice the girl with cart directly ahead looking at grapefruit.

Our carts bumped. Just barely. The impact was light. But I was blind-sided.

She smiled. She didn't seem bothered or hurried or annoyed like so many people do. Her eyes spoke something like an apology. Something like sincerity. Then she continued on to the berries. Picked up a small plastic container of the black variety, weighed it in her hand. Her mind? Her imagination? Then set it in her cart. She did the same with a pack of Driscols. Sweet, sweet Driscols. God, now here was somebody you could eat strawberries with. She pushed her cart toward the apples, her dark thrift-store jeans tight against her persuasive curves. Her long brown hair sweeping down her back in these thin wispy curls. Her jean-jacket insulated with lamb's wool. Like a fighter pilot's. Somebody was bound to get shot down.

Love in the produce aisle? What was this, a Woody Allen movie? It made perfect Woody Allen sense to walk up to her at that very moment and ask her for her name, her birth sign, the way she liked her oatmeal in the morning, the particular type of lettuce she enjoyed. Her philosophy on organic versus conventional? Did she take her tea with sugar or milk? Both? Neither? Yes, if this were a Woody Allen movie, this might be the thing to do. It might spark a long meandering conversation that would lead to a highly neurotic love affair, filled with self-doubt and over-analysis, and ultimately end up as a dead shark. It sounded delicious. But sadly, this wasn't a Woody Allen movie. This was just the Lovers Lane Tom Thumb at six in the evening. This shark was surely dead already.

The girl lingered around the broccoli while this 30-something car salesman from Louisiana—recently divorced and broke, Katrina'd out of his home, starting a new life in Dallas selling Toyotas all day and eating frozen pizza and ice cream for dinner every night in front of a TV set in a one-room apartment with a single lamp and a futon mattress on the floor, and a DVD player and a stack of Wicked films—dallied among the apples, thinking how much he'd like to eat strawberries—or any sort of fruit, really—with this brown-haired girl in the jeans-jacket.

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