There she was, in the gloom forlornly standing on the rainy street corner looking like Lee Remick in the closing scenes of the movie Days of Wine and Roses. Well, maybe not exactly like Lee Remick. But you get the idea.
“I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
I could almost see the tears in the darkness. Sometimes she is quite good at emotions. A regular Meryl Streep she is.
I shrugged, “I just didn’t feel like writing.”
“You don’t have to protect me. I know when I have been ghosted.” She replied passionately.
I was a bit surprised at the term. “Ghosted? Oh, you mean the post-millennial term to just disappear from a relationship without any explanations! I didn’t do that. I was just busy.”
“Busy is just the blow off excuse when a ghoster gets busted.” She snapped back.
“I have been distracted. I just haven’t had the desire to write until now.” I mumbled.
She laughed dryly and sneered, “You just got to the end of the YouTube sawmill videos.”
“Well, you can only watch so many sawmill videos before you know all you want to know about them. Besides, I am watching carpentry and cooking videos now.” I said, lamely trying to cover the obvious score.
Sensing she was on a roll, she pressed on. “You cook three meals a week, and never cook anything that takes more than fifteen minutes to prepare.”
“Hey! It is still cooking!” I shot back, still smarting.
“Yeah, and you’ve earned Snookums undying gratitude for sharing the chore. When are you going to start cleaning up afterwards too, hero?”
She was really going now, but it was time to stop this attack and I brought out the heavy artillery. Job descriptions.
“When did you become Snooks voice? I need a muse, not a guilty conscience!” I demanded.
She backed off slightly, changed her tone and replied, “All you needed to use me is go to work.”
“I haven’t us…” I said, beginning my counter attack.
“… watch it, buster, this is going on the family pages.”
She had me there. Refilling my coffee cup and composing myself, I started again.
“Writing shouldn’t be work!”
“Can you name one writer who believed that?” She asked.
“Well, no. But that doesn’t mean it should be work.” I answered, but I knew she made the final score …