"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.