Stefan resumed his duties at the entrance and the women starting talking about their other hobbies. Gretchen was an avid knitter when she wasn’t tending bar. Marie drew cartoons and comics, but she was sure they’d never be good enough to get published. Sheila wrote erotic fiction.

“Really? You seem so straight laced,” Gretchen said putting her elbows on the bar, hoping Sheila might give some examples of her writing.

“I am. I’m completely vanilla, but my alter ego is a sex crazed nymphomaniac,” Sheila said.

“Isn’t that redundant?” Marie asked.

“Ok, yes it is redundant. But I get away with a lot of repitition in the style of writing that people like to read,” Sheila said.

“I’ve heard that you’re supposed to use the term ‘hypersexual’ now a days,” Gretchen piped in.

“Yes, you are also correct. Nympomania was a term used for hypersexual women. But we all know that the sex drive is different for everyone, so someone else’s orgy might be a regular Saturday night for you,” Sheila said, waving her hand in Gretchen’s direction.

“Don’t bring my sex life into this. You said you wrote fiction,” Grethen said, starting to blush.

“Yes, I always change the names to protect the innocent,” Sheila said smiling.

“So, are you writing for men or women?”, Marie asked.

“Both really, I guess. I just write the stuff. My agent sells it. I’ve only seen my books at a couple of bookstores in the Seatle area. They don’t carry a wide variety of erotic fiction at Barnes & Noble or Borders,” she said.

“It’s really slow here tonight. How about a reading?” Gretchen asked, hopefully.

Gretchen just squirmed on her seat.

“Come on, Gretchen, you’re embarrassing her. We all just met,” Marie said.

“What, I’m wearing this hat that I knitted. I just wanted to hear some of her work,” Gretchen said pulling on the tassle of her green woolen hat.

“Tell you what. I’m a little too shy to go get something to read out loud, but I’ll bring one my books over here tomorrow for you to read,” Sheila said, hoping to placate Gretchen.

“Can I read it too?” Marie asked.

“Sure, I can give two copies and you can let Stefan read it too,” she said.

“Remember, it’s not me. It’s Sally Sweetwater.”

“Sally Sweetwater,” Gretchen said, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t knock it, sister. Sally sold fifteen thousand copies of her last book,” Sheila said.

Gretchen was already typing ‘Sally Sweetwater’ into the search box on amazon.com. She laughed out loud when she read the title of the lastest book, “Really, ‘Come Into My Cubicle’. That’s the title?”

“Yeah, sounds bad. But it sells. Do they still have ‘Rest Stop Romances’ listed?”, Sheila asked trying to see the computer’s screen.

“I don’t think you should have told us about this line of work. You know I’ll write a song about it,” Marie said to Sheila.

“I want to read ‘Rest Stop Romances’,” Gretchen said to Sheila. “Go get it. I want to read it right now.”

“OK, I’ll go get a copy, but then I’m going to bed. I have to go to work in the morning,” Sheila said.

“I’ll come with you and then I’ll bring it back here so you can crash, OK?” Marie offered.

“Just do it now. I must read this book!”, Gretchen said, shooing them away.
Sheila and Marie walked back to the apartment buildling together to get the book. When they got to the front door, Marie thought of the old joke about the name of the apartment building.

“Hey, that would be a good name for a book,” she said, pointing at the gold lettering on the glass. “Man’s Chest in Your Arms!”

“Nice one. You’ll have to help me write it,” Sheila said opening the door.

“I’ll have to come up with a pseudonym though, what should it be?” Marie pondered to herself.

They made their way back down into the basement, and Sheila dug out a couple copies of ‘Rest Stop Romances’ from the box in her storage locker. The cover art was kind of disturbing and Marie started to wonder what kind of book club Gretchen had signed them up for.

Sheila saw the look of fear in Marie’s face when she handed her the book. She thought the cover was kind of strange herself. “I had nothing to do with the artwork,” she said.

The cover was a crude oil painting of a dark night at a road side rest stop. There were only a couple yellow streetlights shining down on the two cars in the parking lot in the distance. The main focus was on the figure standing below the title. His face was completely black and in silhouette, but there was a stripe of light on his hands and they were obviously buttoning up his jeans as he left the restroom. Then you would notice the small face peering out of the crack of the door to the restroom, waving to the man who was leaving.