Her badgering had become as constant as the waves crashing on the nearby seashore. “Mama this and Mama that,” enough already he said slamming the door behind him as he burst into the hallway practically knocking over two tourists looking for room twenty seven. Stepping back and gathering their wits while trying to figure out in split seconds if they were both about to be killed, mugged or worse kidnapped by a man in a torn Havana shirt obviously very distraught about something. Quickly grabbing each others hands and backing themselves up against the wall they prepared for the worst, only to see the angry young man melt into an apologetic blabbering local who not only provided directions but promised if he ran into them again, drinks were on him! Ending the apology with a hasty retreat down the hallway and a vault out into the street he turned back toward the apartment and saw Mama coming out onto the balcony with what appeared to be a large white stack of paper. He froze in the street; suddenly remembering his manuscript was not in the satchel tucked under his arm. Then he witnessed a scene, as if in slow motion, of her raising her arms with the handful of brilliantly white papers against the tropical blue sky and flinging them into the air. His first one and only draft flittering aimlessly into the air and upon street traffic below. The second she had done it she felt remorse. She had crossed a line this time that she would not be able to go back over. Later at the bar, he felt her hand on his shoulder and looking to the left could see her jet black hair cascading over his blue Hawaiian shirt. “Mama sorry. She has a temper.”