Writing

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It's Saturday afternoon and I am sitting here at my desk staring at the white computer screen, trying not to squint at the small thought that I had just typed out. The delete button is begging me to push it. Words disappear as I press gently at the button. Now still more blankness if that's possible. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see the email symbol bouncing up and down, announcing mail has arrived. I ignore it as I want to write and didn't want any distractions.

The phone rings, I hear it gets pick up and my husband's voice, talking in his silent vocals. He is discussing about computers with a client. After a long conversation about internet connection, he hangs up. I wait for him to knock at my door. He would often tell to me stories that he thought would make a good story. He was very generous and had converted his old office to a writing room for me. I was grateful for the space. I hear no knock. I wait again. Nothing. I did told him I was not to be disturb today as I am trying to write. How I wish for an excuse to leave this room. Silence's gathering in the room and the words wouldn't come. The screen still blank as my thoughts continue to follow his footsteps. He is now vacuuming as it is his turn to clean this week. I can hear the "rrrrooommm" sound that it makes. The sound comes close to my door then it's gone.

Back to the screen, I stare but still nothing comes. I check my email but it was all junk. I quit the program so that it wouldn't be a distraction. Once again I hear my husband wandering the halls, this time he was humming some 80's song about a needing a hero. I smile as his humming turns into singing. Now it's some song about blaze of glory. His voice fades as he walks downstairs.

Still I stare at the white screen hoping for some thoughts that might fire up my creativity. I hear a noise from the outside. I walk to the window, my husband's now mowing the lawn. In the bright sunlight, I can see him wearing his 80's concert t-shirt with an eagle, faded blue jeans and a white baseball cap covering his blond hair. Whistling, he seem to be enjoying himself. A squirrel sneaks near him. He pause to stare at it. It runs away to the neighbor's yard. He resumes mowing the lawn.

Our neighbor, old Mrs. Hanger stops to talk to him. She's wearing her faded pink bathrobe. He drops the lawn mower and walks off with her in a quick pace. Moments later, a knock is at my door. My husband, sweating from running in tells me Mr. Hanger had hurt his back and that he's going to take him to the hospital. He wants to know if I need anything from the store. Always the practical man, I laugh and shake my head no. He kisses my lips and walks off.

I watch him through the window, carrying old Mr. Hanger covered in white sheets and putting him in his car follow closely by Mrs. Hanger who is still wearing her bathrobe. They drive off to the hospital with the engine making it's clog-clog sound.

Back at my desk, the screen had fallen asleep and it's all black. I can see my reflection in it. My long brown hair is all piled up high and my pale skin shin. It's been four hours and still no writing. I wonder if maybe I should be doing something else. The phone rings. It's my husband, he wants to know if he should pick up some dinner. I said sure, anything he wants.

He brings home two chicken salads and two bottle of ginger ale with two small chocolate cupcakes. We chat about Mr. Hanger as we eat. It seem Mr and Mrs. Hanger were having sex when Mr. Hanger hurt himself falling out of bed. I laugh so hard, I spill ginger ale all over my pants and shirt. Then my husband says he hope we would be like them at their age. He smiles at me mischievously. I just laugh. I guess today's not a good day for writing.