He tapped his fingers on the keyboard, staring at the crack in the wall. “Aaaany day now,” he said, his voice fettered with sarcasm. “Any moment now, an idea is going to jump right out into these fingers, and I’ll write something. It won’t be good, but, it’ll be something.”
The sun had begun it’s rise, peeking through his back window and just barely catching his eye. He felt as though it was a death ray, piercing through to his soul, sending him crashing from his desk. He wiggled and shook, every last synapse firing, his eyes squeezing shut with tremendous might. He felt the presence of someone else then, and opened his left eye.
“Another seizure, Captain Stupid?” his Wife asked. The Writer sighed and stood up, avoiding the beams from the sun this time.
“No one understands the creative process,” the Writer sighed.
“Frying like bacon is creative?”
“In some circles, yes.”
“In your circle?”
He furrowed his brow and stuck his tongue out at her. She smiled smugly and walked out of the room. “I’m going to work now. Love you.”
“I’m not sure I still love you after that pithy remark, Madam,” he shouted after her. She shrugged and walked without turning around, opening the door to the garage and leaving.
He sat down in front of his computer again, the cursor blinking, tauntingly. “Screw you, cursor. At least you know what you have to do. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Shut up.”
“Blink. Blink. Blink. Fuck you. Blink.” said the cursor.
“HEY!” he said, standing and pointing at the cursor.”
“Blink. Blink.” the cursor replied.
The writer pointed harder, and followed it up with a defeated “Gaahhhh!”
“Blink. Asshole. Blink.” the cursor taunted.
“Oh, fuck you, too.” The writer retorted, picking up the phone and dialing his wife. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“If you’re choking on your tongue, you didn’t dial 9-1-1.”
“Ha. Ha. Funny.”
“I thought so.”
Silence. Normally they were comfortable in silence. When they met, they were silent for hours while they stared into each other’s eyes. Now, it was uncomfortable. Nervous, even.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“You know I was kidding about the I don’t know if I love you anymore thing, right?” he asked, nervously. More silence.
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Are we playing the question game?” he replied.
“Do you want to play the question game?”
“Do YOU want to play the question game?”
“Did you know you just lost because you asked the same question I did?”
“Did you know that it’s not because I said it in English, translated from Russian?”
“Did you know that you’re a moron, and of course I know you were kidding?” she said.
“Yes, I did. I love you.”
“I love you. You and your big stupidhe-”
“My stupid head?”
“My stupid head?”
Silence, only louder still.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment. I hate the silent treatment.” He hated the silent treatment and how easy it worked on him. How frantic he got, how hard it was to be the one who got the last word or action in. And there, on the other end: Silence.
He looked at the phone and choked it, before putting the receiver back to his ear. “Hello?! Hello? Damnit!
On the other end of the phone, there would be no reply. His Wife, the one woman who loved him more than any other, the one woman who would put up with his nonsense, sit on the side of the road, gasping for air, looking around frantically for help as the police officer approached the side of her car.
“Any idea how fast you were going, ma’am?”