In honor of making it to 25,000 words today, I thought I would post a little more of my book. Again, keep in mind this is a very rough draft. We are supposed to use November only to write not to edit ~ that’s for December.

The door opens and I see an enormously fat man enter Becco’s He is wheezing and sweaty. His clothes look to be expensive but they are stretched to the limits across his massive girth. A small movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. It is Betsy Lynn signaling to this corpulent man. Oh, my God! It’s Burwell…he’s enormous. I haven’t seen him in many years and I don’t remember him ever being this, this FAT! What the hell happened??

He struggled to get through the tightly packed restaurant but he finally manages to make it to our table. I stand up to shake his hand but instead I am enveloped in a sweaty, musty, nasty hug. He smells like a mixture of cologne, body odor and rancid garlic. In his embrace was not where I wanted to be. I finally wriggled free from him, but he kept my arms locked in his grip. “Let me get a look at you,” he says. I desperately want to squirm away. The sweat across his brow is dripping now and a small patch of drool has developed in the corner of his mouth. I am not sure if he is drooling at the thought of what’s on Betsy Lynn’s plate or if he was drooling because of the aroma coming out of the kitchen or maybe both. I fiercely hoped I wasn’t the cause of the drool at the corner of his mouth.

As I stood there locked in his grip he stepped back to get a better look, he said. He went on to tell me how much I looked like my mother, God rest her soul. He said I had the same bouncy, reddish blond curls she had and the exact same eyes. His eyes roved over me in a most disgusting, lascivious way. I wanted to break free and run but the private investigator in me came out and I put on a brave face. I wanted answers and I thought Burwell might be able to provide me with some. I just had to figure out how to pry the answers out from under the nose of Betsy Lynn without her catching on. I think she’s well on her way to drunken stupor so I may be in luck.