Revised excerpt from "Broken"

...the drama that is my life. Bordering on 60 hours per week at the day job. Coaching my sons's ball teams whenever time allows. Trudging through endless revisons between the hours of 2 and 4 am...no, really.

...the following is the latest passage from "Broken" that I've been slicing and dicing whenever not overcome with exhaustion. Enjoy:)

***Like Coach Hummel, Doug Stutzman, our sixty year old coach of the Farm Team, was a local icon from his younger days, having once held many athletic records in baseball and basketball. The majority of them were quashed by Hummel two decades later, but searching for any sign of animosity within Stutzman's weary soul would've been futile.

He roamed the ball diamond, his posture stooped, pausing at every position, granting each of us a moment while balanced on teetering knees. Cartilage whittled thin like mucous and stretched taut.

His chin, grizzled with spiked fuzz the color of ash, resembled a used eraser on the end of a pencil. Rounded off and worn down to a nub. Likewise, a pair of silver tufts peeked out from under his ball cap, hovering over each ear.

He spoke with a throat full of gravel. The kind of sound coughed out of the failing exhaust from a farmhand's delivery truck.

Dad later told me that in his youth, Coach Stutzman carried himself well over six feet in height. Now, following a lifetime spent sacrificing his joints for that winning layup or a stolen base in the bottom of the ninth, he'd become a calloused old man, trapped in a body breaking down. And by week's end, I adored him.


***"Broken," by Elliot Grace : 2011

Going the Distance...

...my younger son arrived home from school one day last week armed with a toothy grin, and the type of announcement that simply couldn't wait until everyone was present at the dinner table. Following a series of intense time trials in Phys Ed., my son, nicknamed "Boo," which is a story for another time, had qualified for the school's Mile Run during Field Day.


The famous "Mile Run" has come to be known as one of the most highly anticipated events to close out the school year. A week prior to the race, every student is granted the opportunity of running a mile under the watchful eye of their Phys. Ed instructor, stopwatch in hand. The top twelve times in the school were then invited to participate in the "Mile Run," for grade school prominence, among other awards to be handed out on the last day of school.


Boo's qualifying time was around seven and a half minutes, earning him a second place overall finish in the third grade, but just good enough to make the cut versus several fourth and fifth graders, who's times were around the seven minute mark.


Knowing how I'd once been a "track trekky" during my highschool days, my boy came to me after dinner with a simple request...help him win the thing.


The race was in three days. His opponents were some of the best grade school athletes in the area, making names for themselves in baseball and on the hardwood during the winter months. And my son, a decent athlete himself, but normally one who would prefer to watch the Iron Man sequel over a backyard sprint through the neighborhood, wanted me to figure out how to shave thirty seconds off his time.


Okay...


On Sunday morning we went to the school. With the sun already pushing the mercury up over seventy at ten a.m, we had the entire track to ourselves. I showed him how to properly stretch his legs, and off we went.


It took all of a half a lap before I started noticing a few things.


"Why are you breathing so hard?" I asked.

"I didn't know I was," he huffed.

"You sound like you're about to have a heart attack. If you wanna win this thing, you've gotta learn how to breathe, okay?"

"I know how to breathe, or I'd be dead."

"Pay attention. Try taking longer breaths. In through your nose...out your mouth. Concentrate on that instead of pumping your legs for a couple minutes."

"Okay."


The panting slowed, and by the end of the first lap his chest was rising and falling with decent rhythm.


We rumbled through a half mile in silence. I'd forgotten how good it felt, that burn in my lungs. The blood pumping through my legs. It'd been a while.


"Doing okay?" I asked Boo, who'd managed to stay at my side despite the rising humidity.


"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Side's starting to hurt a little though."


"Think about something else," I suggested. "Do you hear that noise your feet are making?"


"Yeah. Kinda loud."


"You sound like a pony on concrete. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Try landing on the balls of your feet, without hardly using your heels. It uses a lot less energy and might gain you a little time."


The transition was awkward, but he continued to work on it, forgetting about the pain in his ribs.


We jogged into the final lap, both our faces glistening, but our breathing calm, our legs pumping.



"Time for your most important advice," I said as we rounded the final turn. He tossed me a glance, letting me know he was listening. "Back in school when I ran the mile, I'd always run against a few guys who'd take off way too fast at the start, and burn up all their energy too soon. I'd always hang back. Control my breathing, keep my legs pumping steady. Then at the halfway point on the last lap, I'd use up all that energy I'd been saving the whole race, and do this..."



I took off in a mad sprint for the finish. I wasn't sure I could still pull it off, and paid for it later that evening with a series of muscle cramps, but the message sunk in.



"That was awsome, Dad," Boo breathed, stumbling to my side.



We walked a lap before heading home. Cooling down. Lost in thought. Then he asked me something I hadn't been prepaired for. "So Dad, when will your book be done?"



"Well, a little while yet, I guess," I said. "There's edits. Then revisions. Boring stuff that'll make the story sound better."


"It's been a long time," Boo said.



I studied my son's shadow angling toward the distant bleachers, considering what he'd said. Thinking there was a lesson in there somewhere. As we neared the car, our legs at last coming to a stop, I figured it out. "I guess writing a book is kinda like this race of yours," I said. "It's gonna be grueling, and probably a struggle. Your brain might suggest you give up. But if you stay focused, remember your goal and most importantly, concentrate on your breathing...well, who knows."


"Yeah, who knows," he said. Then, "I just hope I don't finish last."



I patted him on the shoulder. "Just finish the thing. That's what's important. Not quitting."



A downpour the night before had left the turf soft and a bit precarious. And as I watched the runners line up side by side, I figured the conditions might slow the athletes a bit, helping out my Boo.


With the entire student body in attendance, including the parents of those participating, the horn sounded, and the runners took off.



As I guessed, a half dozen overly excited runners took off in a full sprint, rounding the first lap with cheeks puffing, chests heaving. Other runners followed, and Boo took up the rear. I studied his expression as he finished the first lap. His face was a stone. Eyes on the ground, his breathing calm.



At a half-mile, the excited sprinters had slowed considerably, but remained in front of the pack. Trailing everyone was my Boo, in danger of falling a half lap behind, but with an air of indifference. I was beginning to wonder if he'd decided to forego a shot at winning the race in order to concentrate on simply finishing.


Minutes later, the runners entered the final lap.



As some of the runners found themselves gasping for breath, and others held a hand to their side, mouths agape, straining for what little energy remained, my son began pumping his legs, and gaining ground.



With a half-lap to go, Boo passed his first runner. From where I was in the front row of the bleachers, I quietly stood, watching as he rumbled by two more. His arms now churning, driving his legs forward, he brushed through a group of four struggling runners unscathed. With the finish line in sight, he pulled ahead of a fifth grader, and set his gaze on the last remaining pair of runners standing between him and the title.



Finding myself unable to do anything other than hop in place while my wife bellowed encouragement by my side, we watched as Boo managed to close the gap with the leaders, before running out of time down the stretch. His final time...seven minutes, eight seconds. Nearly a half minute better than the week prior.



Hours later, sitting in front of the computer, staring at endless revisions, I remembered the expression on my son's face as he neared the finish line. Confident. Determined. And yet...calm. His breathing like the steady beat of a drum.



I'm sure of it now...there's a lesson in there somewhere.

"Feelin it"

...basketball great Isaiah Thomas once spoke of "being in the zone," as a time when looking up to the hoop and realizing that it resembled the same size as a swimming pool. And no matter how awkward the jumpshot, be it while falling down, off one foot, or from an insane distance, like being drawn by magnetic force, the ball had no choice but to drop through for two.


I feel that writing is much the same. For those of us who paint by mind and shape with pen, we can on most days manage to scribble something. Whether it be prize-worthy or filler for the nearby trash can is a decision for later. Point being though...if a page demands attention, even on a Monday, we can make it happen.


But every so often, whether from a full moon glowing orange and hovering just over the treetops as if begging to be touched, or something wonderful in the drinking water, mineral spirits dropped from Heaven or what have you, we find ourselves looking to our computer screens as if it were some mythical orb, phrases never before thought of by anyone walking the planet, simply rolling across the screen like small waves of literary genius. A handful of paragraphs so gratifying, you actually find yourself hesitating, fingers held over the keyboard, bent at the joint and awaiting command, as you ask yourself, "Am I really doing this?" or "Holy crap, this is really good!"


It doesn't happen often, but when it does...


The following excerpt is from "Crazy Heart," by Thomas Cobb...

"He wakes from a dreamless sleep. Her head is cradled on his arm, her breathing regular and shallow on his chest. Love starts this way always, waking, his arm pleasantly numb from being slept on all night. And it always ends trying, in sleep, to get as far away as possible, until no bed is big enough to get the necessary distance. It always starts in sleep before it works its way into the waking and consciousness."


...I'm guessing that on the day Mr. Cobb penned that particular passage, his favorite baseball team wreaked havoc on their most hated rival. He managed to drive across town for lunch without ever once having to stop at a traffic light. And I'm quite certain, as he finished up that final sentence and eased back in his chair, reading what he'd just created, his lips curled to form a smirk, and he thought to himself, "Holy crap..."

"Hoola-Hooping in Steel-Toes"

...over the past six months, the company I work for and vehemently despise, has finally realized that morale is at an all-time low. A year ago this time they couldn't have cared less, their concerns based solely on the survival of their own necks as business fluttered. Now that all arrows are pointing upward once again, they've decided to try and turn our frowns up-side-down.


...a few weeks ago they held a company picnic behind the plant on a Saturday afternoon, advertising roasted hotdogs and games for the little ones. What they'd forgotten however, was that many departments had already been mandatoried, thus preventing several hundred hotdog enthusiasts from showing up. Or the fact that nobody thought to spare a moment and check the weekend weather report, which cautioned high winds and thunderstorms.


...one week later they announced that everyone who showed up for the quarterly meeting in our lunch room could help themselves to a "doughnut fest," complimentary of the management staff. From what I heard, around fifty people showed, which sounds okay, except that our overall headcount currently sits at seven hundred happy campers.


...what I saw upon my arrival today caused me to stop, mouth agape, and shutter. Posted next to the entryway leading to the locker rooms and concession stands was a sign announcing of their plans for the next uplifting company event. A hoola-hoop contest.


...tomorrow, for no apparent reason that I can come up with, and during the two-hour staggered lunch time, depending on whichever department you were associated with, a hoola-hoop contest would be going on in the parking lot between the assembly and engineering departments, for any and all who wish to participate.


Now I'll be the first to admit that I'm not perfect. I may be the last writer in the Western Hemisphere without a laptop. (there's a story to that...but for another day:) I have a thirteen year old who can sing "What do Tiger's Dream of " from The Hangover, while shoving a six inch blade through the throat of an evil terrorist on XBox Live. I've caught myself humming along to something from Michael Buble while driving. We're all human...


But a hoola-hoop contest? At a steel-mill specializing in anything automotive? Fifty-something, pot-bellied, press operators in grease-stained Wranglers and steel-toe boots, attempting to propell a plastic ring around their gut, trying in vain to keep both it, and their pants, from sagging to the ground.


I sent my wife a text, informing her of the company's newest attempt at creating employment bliss. Her response was..."What? Everything they've done to us over the last two years, and they want to make it all better with a hoola-hoop?"


Trying to lighten the mood, I responded with, "Hoola-hooping works like potato salad...they cure all woes known to man."


Okay...so they're trying. We get it. But if they really want to cheer up the workforce, how about returning some of the earned vacation time wrongfully taken from us over the past two years. Or how about giving a couple departments a weekend off once in a while so they can see how tall their kids have grown since the last time they were allowed to leave the plant. You know...it's the little things that would make a difference.


Hoola-hoops and roasted weiners...I really need a new gig.

Revising 13

...been revising a particularly troublesome chapter which my editor has deemed, "In need of a lift." (Whatever that means:)

13's been giving me fits. Keeping me up at night. The root cause behind my displaying the personality of a wolverine around Wife-Dearest and the Offspring, (not a music group.)

In any event, I thought I'd toss an excerpt to the wolves and see how it gets chewed upon. Feel free to say your peace...and as always, thanks for reading.


13.


The orange tabby greeted me with an air of indifference as I returned from school, my cheeks numb from the biting wind. Winter was the only time of year when the cat's fur coat resembled something worthy of a pat. Perched on the hood of the Charger, no doubt in hopes of an engine still simmering from recent use, it took on the shape of a Browns's pom-pom, its protective fluff thickened for the season.


He offered me a slight tilt of his head as I stood before him, backpack slung over my shoulder. A pair of amber eyes, beautiful and deceiving at the same time, studied me, unblinking.


I'd tried sneaking him inside several times, but he always refused, turning tail and lumbering into the cold as if to say, "Come on kid, what do you think the coat's for?"


Katie and I had always considered him our cat, but chances are, so did every other kid in the neighborhood. He simply wandered up to Katie one summer afternoon, looking as if he was suffering from mange and in need of some lunch. He tried to purr for better effect, but only resulted in coughing out a balled up clump of grass coated in phlegm.


While we'd never officially named him, he seemed to react to a particular phrase from each of us. For Katie it was, "Aww, pretty kitty." For Dad it was usually, "Get outta my way."


I sensed a savvy intelligence when in his presence and not playing a prank on him. A yank of his striped tail or a snowball to the back of his head. Something in those eyes, bright like fired candlewicks in the dark. It was in the way he often looked at me. Like he knew what was happening to my family.


I reached out and stratched an orange tuft behind his ear. He leaned forward, eyes softening at my touch. If he did know of my family's crises, he wasn't talking about it. Which made him the only one...

"Adventures in Babysit...editing"

...I'm a writer.





...my wife runs a daycare out of our finished basement.





I'm currently trudging through revisions with my editor. A tedious necessity demanding of one's utmost attention.





At any random time of day, there can be as many as ten or twelve children, babies to pubescent foulmouths, conducting various forms of havoc upon my sagging homestead.





Writing and children. Writing with children. Writing...despite children. Confused? Okay...here's a taste.





Mid-morning. My office. Face pushed up against the monitor, analyzing dialogue in chapter 5...in the zone.





I never heard him sneak up behind me, but lurched in my seat when I felt my shirt-tail being yanked through the back of my chair. Three steady tugs, as if reigning in a horse.





I turned with a start, mind reeling, and stared down into the face of a young chap no taller than a yard stick. Thin blonde hair piled atop his head like hay in need of baling. Legs belonging to a munchkin straight out of Oz. Eyes like blue saucers, I couldn't decide whether he was scared out of his wits, or too curious to control his actions.





Troublesome Riley. He'd snuck out of the basement, wandered about through the house, and discovered me sitting at the computer.





Irritated and fighting the urge to show it, I asked, "Why are you up here, Riley?"





He answered by placing a hand over the crotch of his pants, as if prepairing to unzip his fly.





"Hey!" I exclaimed, scooting my chair several inches in the opposite direction. "What the..."





"Mommy says I can call it a pee-wee, or a dingle, but never a wiener."




"Uhhh..." I quickly leaned toward the wall next to my desk, and hollered into the heat register. "Honey! Need some help up here! We got toilet talk!"




The air duct was a direct line into our basement, carrying sound better than the latest and greatest cell phone achievements Verizon could offer.




I waited, eyes on the vented register, envisioning my wife counting tiny heads. Then from out of the square cut into the wall, "Riley? Get down here this instant!"




The youngster's shoulders slumped. He offered me a half-hearted wave, turned and left the room.




I breathed a sigh, returned to my manuscript, started fading back into the drama when the phone rang. I recognized the number on the caller I.D., sighed again, and picked it up.




"Hello David."




"Morning Elliot...working on those revisions we talked about?"




"Tough day for it, so nice outside and all." I glanced out the window and spotted two kids tossing a large rubber ball back and forth. Byron and Eddie. Two more munchkins giggling about in the sunshine.




"Yeah right," my editor countered. "You're looking at it right now. What chapter you on?"



I glanced at my screen and frowned. "Five."



"Five? Geez, man. Think you can get through ten by Friday?"




I shook my head as I answered, "Probably. If I work on it after my shift."




"You still got the day job?" he asked, incredulous.




"Uhh...if you guys woulda signed me for a little more...I've got three kids to feed, you know."




"Sorry El, but you're new to the show. Best we could do was a high royalty deal, we talked about this..."




Just then the back door flew open, Riley stumbling over the threshold, large rubber ball hugged to his chest, towing Byron upon his back. Byron had one arm wrapped around Riley's throat, another clutching a handful of Riley's scalp, a pair of screams, one in pain, the other a maddening howl, as the pair plummeted onto the floor in a heap of miniature legs and grimy fingernails bent like claws.



"Was that a cat?" David asked, concern in his voice.




"No, fighting kids," I answered. "Hang on a minute."




I turned to the pair of lightweight combatants. "What's going on?"




"He took my ball!" Byron screamed. "I'm gonna pound him!"




Back to the register. "Honey!"




A minute passed, then, "Boys, get down here! Outside time is over!"




More shoulder slumping. Alone again. I turned back to my phone. "Sorry David."




"Do you need me to call somebody? EMS or something?"




"No. We're good. Listen, I'll get through ten this week. Ten chapters a week...four weeks and on to the galley. Won't be a problem."




From around the corner stumbled baby Emily. Eleven months old, still teetering on legs with confidence issues. A red-head in piggy-tails. A trailing booger peeking out of one nostril. She looked at me and showed off a toothy grin. I smiled back, and she waddled over, hands outstretched.



I lifted her into my lap as David said, "Okay El. Good to hear. And oh, by the way. Sounds like they're going with the baseball theme for the cover. The one with the kid."




"Excellent," I said. "That one's my favorite."




I felt something warm on my thigh, like a bowl of hot soup had just been placed upon my lap. I was fairly certain it wasn't soup though. A moment later, a sound similar to that of a massive zipper being worked on, ripped through the air.




David paused in mid-sentence, hesitated, then quietly asked, "Hey El, did you just fart?"




Another sigh. "No David. I got this kid on my lap and she..." The smell floated to my nostrils, began clearing my sinuses, watering my eyes. "Hang on."




A leaned toward the register, throat feeling raw. "Honey! Got major poo!"




A moment later, "Awww man. Okay, I'll be up."




Fearing nausea, I gingerly placed Emily onto the floor, returned the phone to my ear. "David, still there?"




Through the receiver I could hear a collection of giggles, someone hollering in the background, something about a stressed out writer with gas. Then David said, "Hey El, sounds like all's well over there. Give me a ring when you're through ten, okay?"




"Yeah yeah."



I hung up, tried to ignore the lingering stench of infant sewage, turned back to the monitor, stared at words on a screen.




Writing and children. Writing with children. Laugh all laugh at Elliot's woes:)

Katnisssss...

...I penned the following a few months ago. For obvious reasons, it'll never find its way to my pile of outgoing submissions. Its made a few rounds on Facebook, perhaps led to a squabble or three, but all in literary fun. So as I currently find myself wallowing in "edit-hell," I thought I'd re-post my short about a chilly day in the woods when a pale-ish girl named Bella,(perhaps you've heard of her,) happens upon a "firey" deviant from District 12. No, Stephenie Meyer would not approve...but I'll take my chances. Enjoy...



Okay, so what if...



An icy breeze, carrying with it the season's first snowflakes, a shimmering dust visible in glimpses only, darting about like hovering insects, left the air gun-metal cold.



What little warmth remained, was held within the blanketing pine grove on the forest floor. A nearly impassable thicket of brush stretching from one trunk to another, and growing upward sometimes ten feet or more through a soft cloak of moss. Like a natural barrier from the outside world, teams of wildlife used the pine grove as a safe haven from both predators and the falling temperature, as winter's hostile embrace slowly tightened.



In this thicket, where even the solemn gray skies failed to penetrate, where cloved hooves and various forms of paws could pad across the forest floor atop millions of scattered pine needles without making a sound, an abundance of wildlife felt assured of their safety. They were mistaken...



Walking hand in hand under the shaded canopy of evergreens, their movements seen as a fluid blur of motion, their footsteps as silent as the early morning air itself, Bella and Edward Cullen glided through the dense undergrowth with the stealth of a falcon slicing through an updraft at high altitudes.



Bella's hair had thickened since being turned. Appearing soft, like woven yarn the color of mocha, long strands trailed along behind her as she glided lithely through the forest. At her side, Edward's golden pelt of wavy curls bounced upon his neckline with each measured step. Together they resembled a pair of shimmering ghosts, fingers entwined, their souls skimming the forest floor without disturbing the fallen pine needles under foot.



On their feet were matching tennis shoes. White Nikes. A lightly fitting, ivory dress hugged itself to Bella's slim form, while Edward challenged the wooded thicket in khakis and a simple cotton t-shirt. The inclimate weather didn't bother them. Their pale bodies were already cold like stone. In fact, only one condition drove them to the pine grove with such urgency. Hunger.



Their eyes were dilated to the size of black pearls. The telltale sign of a vampire in need of sustenance. The couple moved about within the thicket unnoticed. Together, they breathed in the scents of their surroundings. Hardened pine sap sweetening the frigid air. A tinge of mildew from the moistened needles underfoot. The sour taste of decaying leaves scattered about and rustling in the breeze. And blood. Pulsing through the veins of a crouched puma nearly hidden in a stand of creaking hardwoods. Sloshing under the thick coat of an elk, head bent low, sipping water from a trickling stream across the valley. And a rogue buck. Its antlered head tilted awkwardly to the side, small teeth knawing on the back of a towering evergreen. Completely unaware of their presence. So close Bella could practically taste it.



"Mine," she breathed.



Edward released her hand and nodded his approval.



As Bella dropped to a crouch, her attention focused entirely upon the deer, Edward closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the sounds of the forest, and enjoying her musky scents.



It was then, as a gentle current sifted under his nose, and merely an instant before Bella launched herself into the air, when he detected another presence in the area. An alarming essence. And worse, one he recognized.



Startled, he sucked in a breath as Bella lifted herself from the ground.



Edward could only watch helplessly as she spread her arms wide, fingers curved into talons, her sleek form dropping silently upon the unsuspecting buck, when an arrow streaked by his face, leaving a whisper of death in its wake.



The arrow pierced the deer's heart the very moment Bella's fingertips managed to brush a handful of coarse fir along the animal's back. Caught off-guard, she tumbled over the deer and landed with a thud in a nearby pile of leaves and debris.



In a motion every bit as fluid as the stream's current down in the valley, Bella rolled upright, ignoring the dried leaves tangled in her hair, and crouched defensively, her eyes scouring the treetops.



She spotted her almost immediately. Hoisted roughly thirty feet up a massive elm, a girl not unlike Bella herself in size and shape, was nestled comfortably upon 0ne of the tree's limbs.



Very much human, the girl of nearly the same theoretical age as Bella, was balanced on her knees, her back resting against the elm's trunk. Hair a shade lighter than Bella's, fell upon her shoulders in thin waves. She remained as still as the tree itself, her body poised behind an armed bow, her arm bent at the elbow, a sheathed arrow targeted upon Bella herself.



From where he stood, Edward took in the dramatic standoff with an air of apprehension. Both females remained poised for attack. He watched as Bella's mouth slowly opened, releasing an irritable snarl. From the tree, the girl was a statue, seemingly frozen in place behind her weapon. Now all but forgotten, the dead buck remained on its cloven feet. The arrow had struck so perfectly, instantaneous death caused the deer to simply lean into the pine who's bark it had been feasting. Dead before even realizing it. Limbs now supporting a carcass.



Deciding that he'd better intervene with haste, a thought entered Edward's mind. One that didn't belong to him.



"Hello Edward."



His gaze traveled back to the girl in the tree. While her focus remained on Bella, her thoughts had apparently strayed. A thin smile creased his upper lip.



"Hello Katniss," he whispered. "Nice shot."



The words, "Thank you," formed in his mind. The grin widened.



"I suppose it's safe to assume that your repaired hearing from the Capitol is functioning well."



"It was the least they could do."



Edward turned to Bella, still crouched and hissing.



"Bella...sweetheart, it's her kill. She earned it."



"Little showoff," Bella growled. "That arrow wouldn't work so well on me."



"You mind putting a leash on your pet?" The words entered Edward's mind as if sent through a bolt of lightning. He offered a quick nod of his head.



"Bella please," he said. "Let's take the elk down at the stream. It'll be plenty for both of us."



With a huff, Bella finally straightened, but defiantly refused to turn away from the arrow, which remained targeted at her throat. Still smiling, Edward walked into the firing range, wrapping an arm around Bella's shoulder and guiding her out of harm's way. Bella grudgingly turned toward the valley and the awaiting stream.



As the pair dropped below the quiet hillside, Edward glanced over his shoulder to the giant elm, now only its upper limbs visible above the knoll. The girl was gone.



A moment later, the words, "Thank you Edward," floated through his mind. He again nodded, unable to keep from smiling.



"Stop that," Bella snapped.



"What?"



"You know what. Reading her mind. Don't think I don't know what you're doing!"



"Sorry sweetheart. It's just...well."



"Well what?"



Edward offered a sheepish grin. "The two of you...at each other's throats back there...that was hot."



"Shut up, Edward."



"Sweetheart, there's a leaf in your hair."



"Shut up, Edward!"