Drew by Fletcher

FLETCHER'S BLOG

Fletcher

Drew
Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Her name was Drew.

I was sitting on my porch, looking out over my land, watching the sun melt into twilight. As I plucked away at my grandfather’s guqin, I was thinking about nothing much at all . Maybe I was dwelling on my misfortune, that sounds about right, but I don’t remember. The sky was an amber color, not a dirty brown, but a harvest hue. My eyes were unfocused and dry. The twang of the instrument was calling out to nobody in particular.

Drew.

And then she appeared. I didn’t recognize her, at first, without her browncoat and floppy hat. But then I focused on the freckles and the red hair and my mind scrambled back to a week earlier and the re-enactment of the Battle of Bil by those silly browncoat want-to-be’s. What did they call themselves?

“Hardcores,” she said with a familiar grin.

Right. Hardcores. But aside from a dream, I hadn’t thought about her at all. But there she was, on my porch, talking about coming out to the house next week and making me supper. Apparently, she found all sorts of interesting things in those ol’ caves and she wanted to discuss our future business.

“What business?”

Next week, she told me. It’s a date. And with a knowing nod and that infuriating grin, she was walking off my porch and back into the distance. Thinking back on it now, she didn’t really give me a chance to say no. Didn’t give me much time to say anything. I stared out across my fields for some time even after she was out of sight. My mind now racing with thoughts.

Her name was Drew. And next week, we have a date. Whatever that means.

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