Mike cracked, gifted Self a 2-shot mocha. Each sip, a slide into indulgent euphoria. He sat to write, only to stammer in syllable, sense. He thought he had something, some scene for page, but he wasn’t sure. Mike felt like one of those characters in a less-than comforting dwelling, in a novel, or short, written for purposes of following readers to bed, crawling in with them. Marvelously menacing manuscript; Such would sell, he thought. But that wasn’t his page’s flavor profile. His fingers hopped cautiously, as if each key may be the sessions-stopping mine:
The hall felt micro, macro. She couldn’t tell what of its appearance unsettled her. “Hello?” she said, pushing her right hand’s swamp of a palm back, forth against the right thigh’s denim slide. Only the still responded. With crippling quiet, chaotically coated stillness, more. She stepped. Once, three, stop. The door, reachable within seconds if she darted feverishly, thoughtfully with each leg struggle.
“Stay here, you’ll stay here...” an old woman whisper muttered, words sinking into her ear, expanding like intentioned fog.
With 57 minutes, yes he timed himself, Mike had another chapter. Would he finally finish something? He had to, at this transitional trample, he thought. 1000+ words before 10:30a. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever done that.
“I like it,” Kelly said, finishing her read, then flipping back through the piece, as if to look for quotes, textual evidence to support her statements, Mike thought. “When did you write this? It’s like something I’d have a nightmare about, being alone in a house, ghosts...you know?”
“This morning,” Mike said, sipping the 2010 Chalk Hill AVA Sauvignon Blanc, noticing new notes, he thought.
“What?” She saw his face twitch, attention seemingly shift.
“This Sauv Blanc tastes different than I remember. Anyway, how was work? How’s your friend?”
“Pour me a glass, and I’ll tell you. It’s that kind of story, trust me. You’ll appreciate this. Just don’t write about it,” Kelly said, laughing, almost certain that he would.