The Writer

There were times she wished she could make lines appear on the page. The space laughed at her. Reminded her how she couldn’t make it straight herself. Blocked her thoughts, which even one straight line would have beckoned forth. Strangled her until the time was up.

She was told what was on the page wasn’t anything, but all she could see were words that she couldn’t put in order.

Time for dinner

Because his boyfriend was an artist, he had become used to a few different things. Like paint, ending up somehow on the table. Calling out into a house he knew wasn’t empty, for no answer. Deciding to clean up the paint this time, then go check and make sure the artist was not lost in thought, not passed out on the floor.

“When did you last eat?”

This room was a disaster, but this room was allowed. Even if the artist needed the occasional reminder to clean up.

Being this close grabbed the other man’s attention. He sat back, looking over his shoulder. “Once after the last time you asked!”

Well, that was better than yesterday. The artist was very absorbed. With a smile and a shake of his head, he went to get dinner.