Darla
It hadn't gone well, Darla thought, as she leafed through an old magazine. She shifted position, took her shoes off, and curled her feet up comfortably beneath her on the couch. Across the room, Michael was still typing away. They'd been working together quite well on the book, and then he'd had one of his sudden fits of inspiration and had shooed her away, irritably, because he didn't want her "looking over his shoulder." As if he hadn't looked over mine enough, she thought. And leaned on it...