"We're going to be late for writing class!" Ron exclaimed.
"No, we won't," Barb replied, kissing him on the cheek before letting him go. She held open the large, mahogany doors for him and said her goodbyes. Behind Ron, the 12-foot doors creaked shut as he scanned the room briefly. All he saw was a sea of writers seated on brightly colored yoga mats. Weird posters on the wall featured shadowed figures: some smiling and others faced away from the blinding light of the sun through the patio door.
Ron sat down on a yellow yoga mat, around 20 feet from the instructor. A glass of lemonade was placed next to every mat which he enjoyed wholeheartedly. Beside Ron, a blonde lady with an angry look on her face kept glancing at him. He almost felt tempted to say something, but rather bit his tongue instead. "Welcome to my class," Laura, the instructor, greeted the group of 21 writers. "I'll teach all of you how to write something that's not a steaming pile of crap..."
The instructor droned on and on about books and metaphors. The others nodded in agreement whenever she said something. But Ron didn't. In fact, he wasn't even listening. The instructor's voice only acted as background chatter to him. "I'm going to kill you," the blonde lady leaned over and muttered. Ron looked at her, but the blonde lady was faced forward. He swore he heard her say something.