By Leslie Lindsay Still working on revisions here–so thought I’d share a bit of what I polished up this week.  This is from my novel-in-progress.  Here goes:                   “I shifted on her couch, a plump Pottery Barn reject from ten years ago and fingered the fringe pillow, braiding the strands into tiny cornrows.  Jackie crossed her legs, revealing a new pair of shoes (three-inch orange and red color-block heels) and folded her hands on her lap.  How can the woman not have varicose veins, I mused.  I continued with my diatribe.                 I was pissed and I don’t like feeling pissed.  In fact, the word itself made me cringe.  My nose crinkled and the word came out all nasally.  It’s not how I talk, and certainly not how I think.  ‘Being pissed’ sounds uneducated and uncouth.  But it’s a feeling, nonetheless.  I shrugged.              I wondered almost hourly what Steve was doing.  Who he was with.  What he looked like.  It pissed me off.  I wanted to fight these feelings away, tend to my own family, …