A Social Life

Parson put a kettle of water on the back burner of Tate's tiny stove.  The two had walked back to Tate's place as casually as they could after finding the note Avery had left under the urn in the graveyard.  Their tongues itched to speculate on what the note meant.  "Tonight.  11:30.  You know where."  Where was "you know where"?  What was Avery, of all people, doing writing notes like that?  No one knew much about Avery, but he certainly didn't act like the kind of person who put secretive notes in graveyards.  He seemed shy and nervous around people, but definitely not vicious.  

As the water heated for coffee Tate looked at Parson.  "You know what gets me about this?"  

"What?"  

"That after all the rumors and fake mysteries we've come up with for the paper, we actually have a real one, and I don't know what to do with it.  I can't write about it for the paper.  What if he's actually doing something evil like dealing drugs or having a real affair?"  

"Well, it's not like you haven't written about affairs before," said Parson.  The kettle whistled and she pulled it off the stove.  She got the Folgers can from the top shelf and spooned in two large teaspoonfuls of coffee into the bottom of the French press.  

"But those were all fake affairs.  We just made hilarious speculations about the judge and Mrs. Ellison.  If I had thought they were actually sleeping together, I would never have started a rumor about it."  

Parson poured boiling water on top of the coffee grounds until they came churning to the top, turning the water a deep, melted chocolate color.  She put on the lid.  "Well, as a newspaper woman, I think it behooves you to write about something real for once."  

"A newspaper woman, Parson," Tate threw back her head and laughed from deep in her throat.  "The title is ‘newspaper reporter'.  Or better yet, journalist."  

"Whatever, Miss Know-it-all.  But I'm right."  

Tate looked at her but didn't say anything.  
Then there was a loud knock at the door.  They both jumped.  Tate stared at Parson a moment longer, telepathing that she was not keen on the idea of writing about the truth of what Avery Stoole was doing.  Then she walked to the door and opened it with a whoosh.  

"Judd!  What's the meaning the knocking the bejeebers out of the door?!"  Tate slapped Judd on the arm as he walked into her kitchen.  

"Hi, girls.  I was just stopping by, seeing what you two were up to tonight."  

"We're women," Parson said in the background.  

But Judd was looking at Tate.  "How about you let me take you to Benny's Diner tonight.  You said two months ago that you would let me take you out, but you never have."  

"Judd, I can't tonight," Tate whined.  "I just got a huuuuge assignment and I really don't have time to go out and hang around the diner tonight."  

"Tate, you have the same assignment every week--to write gossip--and I figure you can make up gossip even better when you're down at the diner watching everyone while you eat."  

"But, Judd, it doesn't work that way."  

"Tate, you promised!"  Judd's eyes were hard and he was reaching the first stages of being pissed off.  

Parson jumped down from the counter where she had been sitting and spoke up, "Tate will go with you if I can come too."  

"What?"  Judd's eyes got big.  

"We'll meet you there at six then.  Right Tate?"  Parson poked her with her elbow.  

Tate turned and glared at Parson but said, "Right."  

After Judd agreed and they shooed him out the door, Parson poured the coffee and the two sat at the table.  

"Why the heck did you tell him I'd go?  I didn't want to go, with or without you.  I have too much to do.  I am a professional writer.  And professional writers spend their evenings turning down dinner invitations and writing instead."  

"But what are you going to write?  You have an entire week to get next week's assignment done and I happen to know it takes you less than a day to do it.  A writer also needs a social life."  

"You call going out with Judd a social life?"  Tate rolled her eyes.  

"Maybe you shouldn't be so mean to him?  I think he likes you.  And in a town this small, you can't afford to be mean to the only good-looking guy your age."  

"You think Judd is good-looking?"  Tate asked, now scribbling some notes on her yellow legal pad.  

"Yes."  Tate didn't see the slight blush that passed over Parson's cheeks.    

"Well if that's your idea of good-looking, I'd hate to see what you think ugly is."  

Tate heard the kitchen door slam before she realized perhaps she had gone a little too far.