She doesn’t know what to write. For the first time in her life, her mind is desperately blank, like God took an eraser and rubbed it over her brain in rage. She is poised above the typewriter, a smooth robin egg blue Underwood. The paper is already rolled into place, the ribbon has been changed, the light turned out, and the door shut.
She takes a moment to calm herself. Sometimes she overreacts. She knows that. Her hands tremble over the white keys. She imagines them applying just the right amount of pressure onto the beautifully simple circles, and tries to urge that pleasurable wave of words to wash through her fingers. She concentrates on the memory of writing, concentrates on the ballet movements of her spidery digits as they become independent from her mind. No such luck. She sits at her desk for a moment, in shock.
“Leo!” She flings her door open and rushes to where her partner and occasional bedmate is sitting. He is reading T.S. Eliot and sipping coffee.
“LEO!” She grabs the mug out from his hands and slams it on the ancient table beside him. A torrent of black liquid springs over the sides of the cup and spreads in a puddle on the wood.
“Gah! Jesus! What? What is it?” He pushes himself as far back into his chair as possible, as her frazzled frame looms over him.
“I can’t write, Leo. I lost it. I lost my words. There are no words!” She fights back her tears.
Leo sighs.“You are just over reacting again.”
I do not even remember writing this. I would like to finish this, but it seems trite and contrived, and painfully forced. I try too hard sometimes.