Melt

It's been around 35 degrees all week, and there's no letting up. At least the library is somewhat cooler. Charles Wallace has been whining since the school where the play workshop is being held has no air conditioning, and no fans. I'm glad he's keeping busy, since he's been a bit of a pain lately.
"Sandra, you write like Michael Patterson," he said this morning.
"I do not. I don't use alliteration and assonance, for one thing," I replied.
"Well, you jump around stories just like he does. I read your blog, and you've gone from breaking up with Duncan to being back together and you didn't explain how you went from one to the other. Michael Patterson does that all the time in his play, and in the part of the novel you read to me." I didn't want to admit it, but he was sort of right. I left out getting back with Duncan.
I couldn't think of any other way to do it, so I left a note in a book and then left an anonymous request for Duncan to go get that book off the shelves. He read the note, and then at lunch break I explained how bad I felt, and how Enid and her boyfriend and even Charles Wallace were mad at me and how awful the date with Ed was. Duncan was really happy, and I was happy, and we had a long walk that night.
Then this week Duncan kept getting upset by Michael Patterson hanging around me so much. I kept on telling him that I'm not interested in creepy married guys, but he kept getting annoyed at him. Of course, it was Michael Patterson's own fault he got thrown out of the library.