Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter Forty-Five - Why Am I Not Italian?

Inspiration hits me during dinner.

It's lasagne (I should have been born Italian. Pasta is my life) and I'm on my thirds when a bolt of lightning (metaphorical, people, metaphorical) hits me. 

"AHA!" I squeal, leaping up and doing a little jig around the kitchen. 

Jamie, used to my random bouts of craziness, stays at the table, calmly spooning lasagne into his mouth. "What is it this time, Maya?" he asks tiredly.

I sit back down at the table and have another forkful of lasagne to celebrate. "I," I say grandly, "have come up with an idea for the layout of my story!"

"Congratulations," he says, and carries on eating. I stare at him with my wounded puppy face.

"I'd have thought that you'd be a bit more excited than that!" I protest.

"Whoopee-do, Maya. I'm so happy for you."

I wait.

And wait.

"Aren't you going to ask what it is?" I say finally. He shakes his head.

"Maya... I'm just a bit stressed right now. I've been trying to find a job-"

"You have? Why have you not told me? Tell me everything, right now. Where did you go? What are you trying to be? Why didn't you tell me?"

"This is why, Maya. You'd react like you just did. Over the top! Asking about five hundred more questions than you need to... it's exhausting, Maya. You just exaggerate everything and nothing is good enough and it's just so tiring!"

Wow. That was quite an outburst.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, looking down at my feet (well, I try to anyway, but the table's in the way, so I just stare down at my lasagne in what I hope looks like a forlorn way).

"Just... give me some peace, won't you?" he asks.

In case you're curious, by the way, my fantastic idea is: there's a photo of a commuter holding a newspaper in front of the camera. And then... my actual article is on the newspaper in the photo!

Genius, right?

I only hope Mr Clifford thinks so...