He craved some tea. Tea always woke him up to the point where it wasn’t too much nor too little, and he was procrastinating again. Dreaming to the sounds of obscure french music with a woman whose voice alone could make him weak in the knees, he sat there as the blank screen waited patiently. She said things he couldn’t understand, and because of that he could grab her in his arms and love her to no end, that woman with the dark alto tones. Time passed in slow motion.

Outside it was raining, he found as he pulled back the curtains. Home alone, there was absolutely nothing better to do. He called himself a writer, little as he believed it, and this was supposed to be the perfect moment to actually do something about it. Write an editorial, a short story—anything that would promise some sort of shitty income he could at least say he had earned doing what he loved all his life for some reason he’d never been able to figure out. This was something he wished he hadn’t done all his life, instead wishing he had done something heroic like winning the final touchdown and having cheerleaders fawn over him, wishing he had gone to a technical college to get an engineering degree because at least that way he wouldn’t have to worry about how to pay the water bill. He would never do these things, knew that he thought of them because he daydreamed often, thought fondly of the what-ifs and cursed the connection right back to being a writer. Everything he did, it seemed, fell right back to the damned infatuation.

The rain had picked up a little since he last looked five minutes prior. He looked at the calendar. In the United Kingdom, it was Early May Bank Holiday, whatever that meant. Pictured above was a hummingbird, among the 12 months of birds his ex-girlfriend thought was so adorable at the time. When she gave it to him he faked that he liked it, but knew he was never going to hang it up for dignity’s sake. A month passed and she had found it on the floor among the things he’d neglected for weeks: newspaper articles, unfolded clothes, wrappers. She had nagged for him to clean for weeks now but he said she didn’t live there and had no right to tell him what to do. Said she should impregnate herself so at least then she could be a mom to someone who cared. She’d just hung the calendar on the wall when he said the incriminating words, death written on her face. Laziness kept it there, the only memory he had left of the woman. He supposed she was having fun now, having a party, letting a man serenade her with guitar strums, a man that knew himself, was completely confident of what was to come when she came near.

He wished he could play the guitar, wished he weren’t so used to being alone. Wished he had something to do, wished his bike weren’t locked ten miles down the road at work. For some reason, as the rain poured harder from the grey skies above, he supposed that killing himself up steep hills in the pouring rain sounded like an excellent change of pace. He knew he wouldn’t dare get up though, knew he had something to say and it needed to be said. That’s what happens, he reminded himself, when you suppose you have a masterpiece waiting to be written in your mind but then it comes out like jumbled garbage. Everyone supposes that sort of beauty but when someone asks them to share, no one knows what to say.


Even better than a bike, why not just run out there? Feel something more like a person than a voyeur, doing more than watching and writing it down as if no one knew these obvious revelations about life. That’s why writers do it, he knew, they do it because they keep hoping that, someday, they’ll know something that the world will receive and love, will improve someone’s life if but for a moment. The thought was too cliche for him to digest, thinking himself above all these ideals that you sound so damned wise in saying, the rest of the world looking at you like you know what the hell you’re doing in this world. He was so much more complex than these thick skulls. Too simple to try so damned hard. He hated having to bullshit himself through a writing session even though he had nothing to say, hated making a career out of something so fleeting, something he could do whenever he wanted. Writing as a career seemed so ridiculous to him, like asking a kid to play and make up story plots on the jungle gym and get a few bucks by doing so. No, but nothing stupid. You have to craft it well and thorough, something that sells, kids.

He wasn’t any more than a kid himself, staring out the window still as the urge for tea increased and his butt began to numb. Wanting an explosion, anything as an excuse to save writing for later, to punch himself in the gut and call the ambulance and they’ll ask why his lung was punctured and he would say, in the calmest and most obvious tones, that he works as a writer and that, frankly, this fact should speak for itself.

Finally he rose to his feet and stretched, feeling a bit faint. He’d been used to eating nothing when he wrote for long hours, somehow feeling like he could write better on an empty stomach. He thought himself a caveman, painting a picture on somewhat of a dense thought process, still toiling with the prospect of food, the hunt he prepares for by necessity. Thinking on this as the microwave warmed a mug full of water, he noticed the silence was unbearable. With people living past these thin walls beyond the tiny studio, loud noises were unacceptable but this only further provoked him to scream. For no reason, surely, but to indulge in the sheer joy of it. To feel alive again.

And as the tea steepened and music became beyond him, he let out a rousing not-giving-a-shit, loud and clear, making sure the world could hear him and remember again. He knew the landlord would give him hell later but ah well. Consorting with writers from time to time will prove these moments inevitable, he mused as he let out a laugh. The tea slid down his throat like a hand down his neck, the woman with the sultry alto tones. She was still singing quietly across the room as the computer hummed softly. Back to the drawing board, he thought to himself. Nothing like it, and nothing more.