The Writer mainly sits at the computer thinking and waiting and then goes outside to process their ten or so ideas and create opening line after opening line smoking a cigarette:
She came in out of the rain and her hair was wet and her clothes were wet and she stood there for a second soaked and smiling and he thought ‘I love you, I love her’.
And you want The Writer to write about love like that and tell you a story like that and that’s what they want to do too. They write the line they made up, the one they liked whilst sitting outside on the stairs looking around at the same stuff, coming back to the laptop all confident with that line and feelings and goals. The Writer writes the line and then sits there for a second, looks at the clock and it’s been a few minutes and The Writer thinks ‘I better fill up my glass to get this going’ so does and sits back down and thinks ‘should I delete that? Where will it go?’ and adds:
She starts taking off her clothes in that haphazard I Don’t Care About Clothes way that makes her so exquisite. We normally spend hours of life yearning for women to take off their clothes and when they do its like God himself is appearing in the room. Like a gift.
The Writer saves the document and it’s called ‘The Writer’ at the moment because it’s nothing yet.
Of course it’s perfunctory and unsexual and even though she does a little shimmy thing with her ass to get her pants off it’s still just part of the “you’re watching me” kind of exhibition which is both nice and also “men are pathetic”. I turn back to my magazine and keep reading this article about how artists have changed since ‘September eleven’ and how it’s getting more and more acceptable to manipulate the images we saw that day.
Actually I am not American and I have that back-of-the-mind thought that either it was actually orchestrated by the American government or at least they are to blame based on past actions…you know what I’m talking about (the whole Middle East/CIA support in the past, “what did they expect from such direct interference” type of stuff).
“Baby come here and kiss me” she says and so I get up and go to her and hold her naked cold damp body and it’s so little and fragile and her skin is that clammy cold it gets when you come out of that weather and I massage her ribs and kiss her lips and run my hand through her wet hair and can only say “you’re so wet” and in my mind it’s like she is a little bird and I should have said that instead. “Go for a shower” I say and she is putting things away and I say “hey don’t do that now. I’ll do it, go!” and she kisses me again all little and naked and I watch her ass jiggle as she skips down the hallway to the bathroom.
There’s something in this piece. It’s so nice to be in love, isn’t it? How the simple things like, for example, coming home and going for a shower are so beautiful and inspiring. The Writer, now, starts thinking terrible things will happen. Nothing is so serene or simple. There is always something else. But he doesn’t want that to be true.
The shower is on, steam is coming out into the room and swirling up and quickly dispersing. She loves hot showers. The magazine article has gone the wrong way, too shallow. I flick forward to the writer’s profile and I see it’s part of a thesis written by some early-twenties student. A university assignment. It’s been somewhat interesting (if not obvious) up until now so that’s the end. My phone rings and I see it’s Christine (an ex-girlfriend, ‘ex’ as in maybe three months ago).
Hand on the brow, The Writer thinks things like “no, this is stupid”. And so what she causes problems? Or so there is no problem? And so there is a weird jealousy thing or so The Writer doesn’t react to the proposed jealousy thing or whatever. No thanks.
I cancel the call, write a text saying Hey there. Can’t talk now, ok? I’ll call tomorrow. Hope you’re ok. Catch up soon. I feel bad, I want to talk to her, just not as much as she wants me to talk to her. I mean really I can’t just go through the everyday of her life…every day. I mean that’s not the way forward. I turn on the TV to see what’s on. Seven thirty has all kinds of crap on it, it has the stuff you watch where you can turn the channel every minute or less and still follow the story. Some presenter talks to me like I’m eight so I say fuck you and switch off. Ok, basically waiting for her to get out of the shower.
Outside (another cigarette) The Writer finally gets the idea…it’s writing about love! About real love and that’s what was happening in a way, so now it’s going to be told right, the story will have what happens! And then it’s going to get all blurred because what is the story? This real stuff or the ‘story’ parts?
She has a cotton bud in her ear, left in, sticking out of her ear, wrapped in a towel her skin lobster pink from the heat and the steam pours off her like a burnt angel and he leaves his ended article, ended TV and follows her around, taking the towel off and dries her body, sucking some of the droplets off her shoulder and back with his lips. “What are you doing with that ear thing?” he asks, and she says “I’m soaking up the water” and he says “that’s not good for you, let me get a tissue” and he sits her down on the bed and dries her off and pulls out a tissue and works it in her ear and she lies down eyes closed so he starts working on her body, rubbing and massaging, her now hot flesh under his hands like a soft fresh virgin.
She is sleeping right over there in their small studio, writing for her now, or, at least about her, using this love feeling to write something beautiful. The Writer goes over and kisses her for reasons she doesn’t know, like it’s a little bit extraction or inspiration or real-world feelings. The Writer is in love and wants to keep being in love. To write about love.
“Mmmm that’s nice” she says, keeps him rubbing her body. She rolls on to her front so he rubs her front, hand over her stomach, legs and brushing over her breasts. He kisses her belly button and down to her thighs and knees and down her shins to her feet. Starts kissing them and then sits up and rubs her feet and she closes her eyes and another ‘mmmm’ sound makes him feel good. He can’t resist any more and kisses her lips, knows he should stop but can’t stop kissing her lips.
It’s not really working, the story, but something lovely is happening. The Writer looks over to his muse and she is beautifully sleeping and he wants to kiss her again but it’s late, well, midnight late. The Writer is alone and yet loves being alone at 12:00am. It’s almost that she is the only one who will/should read this.
“I’m going to bed darling” she says, “are you going to write?” “Of course I am!” he answers, just wanting to be with her while she is awake and put her to bed and touch that delicious body. “I’m writing about…well, I think it’s pretty beautiful” he says and she smiles and says “good…come and kiss me” and he does, a little tipsy from the wine but still sitting there with her. Makes writing the story so much easier.
Pleased that it is progressing in this way, how anything that’s really beautiful happens like that. And even though The Writer has to be aware of things there is still room for a relaxed type of happiness or feeling that something is good. Looking at the clock the minute hand is the devil.
I sit at the keyboard under the glow of the laptop light. Don’t want to wake her so it’s just me and this dull glow where I squint at the keys and think about the first sentence. What I want to write is how I feel right now. This content ‘happy in love’ thing. How she said ‘are you going to write?’ and how I am here now. There is some kind of warm feeling about that. My hand punches out something but I’m not ready yet. It’s basic stuff and I delete it. Imagine being able to write straight away about this feeling. Or what it is to be in love. As brief as it can be, or as simple. Instead I get up, pour a pretty large glass of wine and go and kiss her probably too much on her face and neck. I take the wine outside for a cigarette.
