“It’s been a while,” I say.

“Hm?” Fiona looks confused for a moment. “Oh, right. Are we doing this again? Don’t I at least get a coffee?”

The barista brings over two freshly brewed filter coffees. She looks like a young Morena Baccarin, and I like that. “Sorry about the cups,” she says. “The dishwasher broke and they don’t pay us enough to do it by hand.”

“It’s fine.” I watch her walk away, and decide she’s wearing high heels. They’re not very practical, and they’re probably killing her feet, but they make her look sexy.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Fiona comments, suppressing a grin.

I shrug. “I’ll leave a tip once the story’s done.”

The cafe has a nice atmosphere, and since it’s the middle of a college day, there aren’t any kids around. We can do adult stuff if we want.

Fiona snorts into her coffee. “Like what?”

“Whatever it is that two married women get up to in public places with only readers watching.”

“I noticed you put a fourth wall in.” She waves to you. “That’s quite fancy. Makes me feel like Ryan Reynolds. Hey, why don’t you write him into the story?”

“I don’t know. I’m not into Celebrities & Fan Fiction.”

“I know – but if you ever are going to do it, he’s the one. For me, anyway. You can have his wife.”

Clearly God is in a good mood today – Fiona rolls her eyes; she thinks it’s stupid when I talk about God as if I’m not the one writing this – because guess who walks into the cafe? None other than that same glamorous couple. They’re beautiful. Ryan is yummy, and Blake is a tall, blonde, pregnant goddess. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper.

“Oh, we are absolutely doing this,” Fiona whispers back. “Hey, Ryan,” she calls, waving him over.

“Oh. My. God.” Ryan smiles mischievously as he guides his gorgeous wife towards me. “It’s Fiona!” He glances at you and says, “If you think this script is bad, you should watch Green Lantern. Actually… don’t.”

“Honey,” Blake says, “don’t talk to the camera. You’re wasting words.” She smiles at me and I explode into a million butterflies. (It’s my story. I can do that.) “How many words are left, Ali?”

“Just under half,” I say, once I’m able to say anything at all.

“She always does this,” Fiona says, staring with naked admiration at Ryan. “She does this absurd challenge and then wastes words on irrelevancy. If it was me writing this, you’d be naked already.”

But because it’s me writing this, the barista walks over to take their order – and stares at Ryan in shock. “Wade?”

“Oh shit. Vanessa. Hi!”

“Don’t ‘Hi!’ me. Who the fuck is this?” She glares at Blake.

“Cut it out!” Fiona hisses at me. “This is the only chance I’m ever likely to get and you’re fucking it up.”

Blake looks bemused. “If she starts eating mashed potatoes out of his ass,” she says to me, “I’m out of here.”

I grin back at her. “Ew. That’s one fetish even I would never write.”

“Oh, please,” Fiona mutters. “There’s no fetish you wouldn’t write.”

“I could whip some up, if anyone wants to try it,” Vanessa says, “but I’ll need Wade’s help to make it extra creamy.”

Ryan looks at you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Blake turns and scowls at you. “Stop encouraging him.”

“I’d like to try it,” I say, raising my hand. Honestly, if Vanessa wants to eat my ass, I’ll happily write this stupid fetish.

“One order of mash,” she says, writing it on the order. “Coming right up.”

“You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?” Fiona demands. “This is your revenge for me taking over the narrative that time in the bookstore cafe.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Blake whispers in her husband’s ear.

“Please take me with you,” Fiona whispers in his other ear. “I’m literally begging you.”

“You’ve got one minute,” he whispers back. “Don’t waste it.”

Fiona doesn’t waste a second. She knocks her teaspoon accidentally-deliberately onto the floor and, under the pretext of bending down to pick it up, slips under the table. Blake, amazingly, doesn’t notice.

“Doesn’t notice what?” Blake asks.

“Nothing.”

My innocent act doesn’t fool her for a moment. Her eyes narrow suspiciously.

I say nothing. I close my eyes and count to sixty. It’s the least I can do for Fiona.

I can smell mashed potatoes…