The pretty young woman sat at her desk, alone again on yet another Saturday night.
She felt confused. Something was stirring within her, something strange and frightening, yet also deliciously exciting.
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She had met Brad only a week before at the grocery. He was tall and handsome, about her age, with eyes that shed warmth when he glanced her way.
She was standing in a long checkout line with another bottle of wine to drink alone back in her apartment. But it had slipped through her nervous fingers, shattering into a bright red mess in front of everyone.
The crowd gasped at her clumsiness. Suddenly, Brad appeared from nowhere. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got this.” His strong hands and arms led her safely away from the terrible moment.
That imaginary moment was when the real-life Betty Evenson realized that she was meant to write. Not just anything, mind you, but