Monday, March 20

In desperate need of stocking caps and chapstick.

He heaved an eternal sigh, shut the bathroom door behind him, and decided to head for the kitchen for some prune juice. The light was already on, and a second source of light was on the table; an open laptop. A woman crouched behind it, clutching a mug of what looked to be tea but might possibly have been whisky. She was staring at the lighted computer screen with a thoughtful look on her face.

"Hey." He opened the fridge and scanned the shelves and door for the bottle he'd seen earlier. The third source of light made the shadows in the room dance and multiply.


"Got any cups?"

"On your left." She rapped her fingernails on the ceramic mug.

"What class are you working on?" he asked.

"No class." She paused and said more quietly, "I'm writing."

He snorted with laughter and shook his head. For a moment she was distracted by the way the hems of his flannel pj bottoms, a size too big, fell across his toes.

"What's so funny?" She asked expressionlessly.

"Are you serious?" He watched disgustedly as the brownish liquid ran into his glass.

"What . . . "

"I mean, you think you're a writer because you sit here late into the night and stare at your blank computer screen?" He capped the bottle and looked over his shoulder. She cleared her throat and peered at him through smudged glasses, finding herself unimpressed by his unaccountably hairy chest.

"I sit at my computer and look at the blank screen all night, you sit on the toilet and don't shit all night. Do I have any problem with you?"

At this point he was half-through chugging a pint of prune juice and managed to set the cup down before losing his mouthful to the garbage disposal in a sudden fit of laughter and its consequent coughing.

"That's right, feed the alligators," she said dryly to her computer.

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