Me vs. The Publisher (Round 1)

We are sitting in a sunlit café. The aroma of coffee wafts its way up my nose and, into my brain, seeping into my thoughts. He sits across from me, his beer belly kissing the sharp edge of the table. He burps, wipes his greasy fingers on the napkin and stretches his hands out.

I try to quell the rising waves of nausea; try to stop pictures of crisp paper wilting under the weight of lard floating across my mind.

He clears his throat and looks at me pointedly. I will have to hand it over to him eventually.

I take a deep breath in to prepare myself then push through my sternum, reaching deep into my chest. My heart scuttles about, dodging my searching fingers, hiding behind one lung then behind the next. It knows it’s about to come up under inspection, and is quickening at the thought. I manage to catch it finally; there is a tug of war: I win, and pull it out.

The excruciating part is just about to begin.

Carefully, holding it in both hands, I lean across the table, and place it in front of him.

Please don’t get grease stains on it.

He tilts his head side to side: looking at it from every angle. He lifts it, bounces it up and a down a little: checking its weight. There is silence, then a “hmm” of consideration from him. My nerves are tingling, burning; restless, they want their companion, my heart, back, and quickly. I try to not let the ache show. Stoic, professional.

He places it back on the table; takes out a microscope; polishes its lens. Examines its quickly beating surface, spending time over every crevice, considering every scar. A gem cutter analyzing the raw material he has to work with. Every time he pauses at a fault line, a river of panic bubbles up inside me.

A quick look of disappointment flicks across his face. He shakes his head: no.

We do not exchange words. He places it back on the table; quietly. Gets up, swings his satchel over his shoulder; and walks out of the café without looking back. On to the next.

I pick my heart up again: it feels heavier, more leaden than before. I slip it back into my chest: it’s eager to go in; almost rushes out of my hands in its haste to get back behind the protection of my ribs. I sew my chest back together, get up, walk back out into the bright sunlight. Another ordeal over.