Member-only story
My writing mate in the afternoon
from the corner of my eye, i see her climbing in, through my window.
in the dull afternoon, to sit gently by me and watch me write.
frustrating the quiet curtains, rummaging them from their siestas.
they tenderly protest, wanting to stay still, to go back to their creased folds.
and yet she comes in, inviting me to gaze at the sensation that she is.
a slight nod and i take my eyes away from her, knowing she’ll leave soon.
but she stays, singing me a song of the old laden trunks in the backyard.
i ask her, why are you not in gush today? why are you my companion still?
she laughs and reminds me, i opened my bedroom’s window to let her in.
but forgot to unlatch the window in the other room to let her out.
you’re loud, when i do that, i quietly protest.
you enjoy that fervour, you crave that excitement in the evening, she reminds me.
i turn to her and ask her to stay.
stay so i can dance with her, and enjoy as this moment passes away.
she chuckles at my misery, knowing i’m purposefully distracting myself from the writing.
honey, i’m here to remind you, that all you are and all you write, is in the present.
i am merely here to bring the excitement that a day’s lull can bring.
and with that she announces her departure, vigorously picking up the curtains from their sleepy den.
they groan again, but allow her to leave. from the other room this time.
until tomorrow, my friend. the wind.
