Writer's Block

The simple fact that he was calling her reinforced the idea that he was getting pretty desperate. The last three days had been just one long line of early wake-ups, coffee, more coffee, a nap despite the coffee, pacing, TV, coffee, some masturbation thrown in for good measure, opening and closing the window as it got either too hot or too cold, sleep. Repeat.

This is what he was, a man of extremes. When the ideas came, they rushed out of him in a torrent, the ferocious scribblings on papers thrown around the room and tacked onto walls, the laptop pulled from one end to the other, stretching the limits of the power cord, exposing it to the errant foot as it lay taut across the room. But then he would enter these phases where nothing would make sense, where every word would cause him to delete a page of others, the tracings of a story that once seemed so clear, that energized him, would become a burden that led, ultimately to the place he had gotten to now - unshowered, unshaven, miserable, for the last three days. And all because of an inability to express himself.

So he called her. Maybe because he really wanted to speak with her, maybe because he missed her. Maybe just because.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"Who is this?"

"You know who it is."

"I just had to make sure. I mean, I erased your number from my phone. This is me going off of memory."

She was chewing something while she was speaking with him and every other word was a chomp into something soft.

"What are you eating?"

"Food. It's no concern of yours."

"Fine. Are we really going to argue about this?"

"Why are you calling now? Do you know what time it is?"

He looked at the little clock on his computer. "Ten."

"Yeah, it's ten. Ten freaking o'clock. Like at night."

"So what?"

"So what, it's late."

"You don't go to sleep at ten."

"How do you know when I go to sleep? Maybe now I go to sleep at ten." She was obviously being difficult. He was forgetting whether she was always like this or whether this was something new she was doing now, given the current state of affairs, a little show she was putting on. "And in any case, I have stuff to do tomorrow."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"I'm moving. Back."

He stopped, didn't say a word for long enough that she picked up on it.

"Surprised?" There was a certain satisfaction in her voice, a sense of victory after a punch to the gut. She knew the statement would knock the wind out of him a little, and it was his job to recover as quickly as possible, make her think he was fine with the idea.

"I guess. Maybe a little. You've never liked the City, so it makes sense."

He smiled at the thought that he had handled it well, until he realized that her leaving made him incredibly sad and he felt stupid for the pettiness of the conversation, the way it had, in seconds devolved into a slapping match he had no interest in either winning or losing.

"It does make sense." Chomp, chomp, chomp. "And now I have to go. Still some stuff I need to put into boxes."

There was a weight on his chest. This is not how the conversation was supposed to go. The last time they had spoken, perhaps three months earlier, he could still sense that bit of longing in her voice. After they spoke, she waited an hour and then sent him a text, one that was both angry and flirtatious, tepid and suggestive. They texted back and forth most of the rest of the night, toying with the idea of meeting up in-person, with all the realities that such an encounter would carry at what had become 3, 4am. At the end, one of them had just fallen asleep - he couldn't remember which of them it had been; probably her - so that the last text had disappeared into the evening and a response only emerged the next morning, something that completely ignored the lack of consquence that had reigned only hours earlier - "sorry, probably just passed out."

Now three more months had spread themselves over their respective lives. And just like that, now she was moving.

"I can come help you tomorrow." He was getting desperate.

"I hired people. They can do it. That's what I'm paying them for."

"Right," he fumbled, "I mean, maybe I could come just to say 'bye' or something."

"Bye?" She sounded offended.

He went on the offensive. "Look, I think it's kind of crazy that if I hadn't called you right now you would have just left, disappeared, without a word. Isn't that a little fucked up?" But that was her and he knew it, he knew she had nothing to apologize for or explain.

"You have my number. Clearly you didn't erase it from your phone."

"I did erase it, I just can't help remembering it."

"Really, I think I'm alright, but I appreciate the thought. I gotta go."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Bye."

She hung up. He stared at the flashing minutes indicator that told him how long the call had been, then the phone went dark. He resolved he would just show up the next day anyway. Uninvited, a nuisance.

A moment later, the phone virbated and he looked at the message she had sent - "Since I know you're going to come by despite whatever I say, make it 9 and bring me a coffee and a bagel. You know what to order for me."

Black, two sugars. Cinammon raisin, toasted, with butter.

He looked out of his window across the blackened City towards the direction where she lived. He felt scared, uncertain of what his world would be like without her in it, even if she had already been sitting on the periphery for a very long time. It seemed unreal, that tomorrow would come, and then she would be gone, just like that, just like an afterthought.

Shaking his head, he let out a breath that seemed like it had been lodged inside of him since he had gotten on the phone, maybe since the time he first met her. Then he sat back down at his computer and began to write.