Bartleby jumps onto my desk, strolls across the surface littered with multi-colored sticky notes, coffee stains and tattered notebook pages, and sits his fat ass right on my keyboard. He looks at me, challenging me to shoo him away. Don’t even think about it, asshole.
“Alright, alright, Bart. I’m done for tonight.”
Bartleby yawns, blasting me with his rank cat breath. I scoot him over enough to ensure my progress is saved, earning a satisfied look from him.
After a much-needed shave and shower, I grab my silenced phone and go through the dozen or so text messages I’ve ignored within the past 72 hours.
-Hey, Rhys. Just making sure you’re still alive. Call me when you come up for air. (kiss emoji, wink emoji, fist bump emoji)
That’s from Fiona, of course. Just like I put up with her, and her alone, calling me Rhys because it reminds me not to take myself so seriously, I put up with the emojis because they remind me of her—childlike, ridiculous and so cute it’s aggravating.
She’s used to me falling off the grid and bunkering down in the writing cave. Too bad any words I’ve produced are about as stinky as Bartleby’s overflowing litterbox.
-August, I need an answer and a status update asap. Call me.
That’s my agent, Kerrigan. She’s been sending the same text message every week for a month. But until I see some shouty caps and an over-abundance of exclamation marks, she’s just another name in my social slush pile. I’ll get back to her tomorrow. Maybe.
I scroll through the rest of the texts, all whispering the same provocative message. You see, even though I don’t desire an actual committed relationship, that doesn’t mean I don’t want and need companionship—of the physical variety, of course. I just don’t believe I need the same companion for life. So I date. If you want to call greasy takeout followed by raunchy sex, dating.
The writer life is a lonely one, and when I feel like doing the social thing, flexibility and availability is key. So I tend to keep a few ladies on the roster that can handle my erratic hours.
Maureen is a magenta-haired bartender that works from late evening until early morning. She’s into tattoos, classic rock and art. Her favorite canvas is my body, and her skilled, studded tongue is the perfect paintbrush. We’ll call her Breakfast.
Sunny is a barista at one of those lingerie coffee stands. I met her three months ago after an intense writing binge, and quickly abandoned my nearby coffee shop for the a.m. eye candy. She scribbled her number on my coffee cup, and within the next eight hours, I was peeling off her espresso-scented negligee. Her hours range from ass crack of dawn to noon. We’ll call her Lunch.
Louisa works at the city library from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. Ever have a naughty librarian fantasy? She’s it. And yes, we’ve fucked in the stacks. After hours, of course. Sometimes we grab dinner. Most times, she is Dinner.
That leaves Denae, also known as Dessert. She’s a law student and regularly stays up into the wee hours studying. She’s into role-playing, and I’ve starred as the perverted professor while she’s donned a plaid skirt and braids, playing the role of naïve schoolgirl. When she’s feeling extra frisky, she recites law text while I bang her from behind, wearing a judge’s robe. Definitely wins every case.
So tonight, Denae gets the call back. She, like all the ladies I see, understands that my time is limited, along with my level of commitment. We’re still in the fun stages, and the moment that seeing each other becomes more obligation than pleasure, we’ve agreed to part ways. Well, that’s my game plan anyway.
“I thought you had forgotten about me,” she purrs through the receiver.
“How could I ever do that? What are you doing?”
“Pouring over Civ Pro notes. Want some company?”
Concise and to the point. I like that. No empty promise of Netflix and Chill needed. “You know I do. Hungry?”
“Always. Want me to pick something up?”
“Yeah. I’ll give you what I owe you when you get here.”
“I know you will.”
Half an hour later, we’re chowing down on chicken quesadillas from a late night taco truck. Twenty minutes after that, I’m dressed in a floor length black robe and nothing else. Denae is naked, kneeling before me, begging for leniency. She’s both counsel and criminal tonight, and I plan on punishing her to the full extent of the law.
“What do you say to these allegations, Miss?” I ask, looming over her. I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s getting hard to keep a straight face. Seriously, old, crusty ass judges get her hot?
“Please, your honor. Don’t drop your big, heavy gavel on me too hard.”
“You’re out of order!” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snickering. The first time we played one of her little games—over 6 months ago when we started hanging out—I’d barely held it together. This shit never gets old, which is probably why I like her so much.
I let Denae play out her little fantasy, which ends with me sentencing her to my bedroom. She’s just as creatively kooky in the sack, and begs me to handcuff her to the headboard and “make her my bitch.” Her words, not mine.
“I wish I could see you more,” she sighs as we lay in the afterglow. She stretches her limbs like a cat, and I reach over to grab a notebook and pen. I keep a stack there just in case. Sex inspires me. And I still have on the judge’s robe. It actually feels pretty good against my skin. Don’t judge me.
“Yeah. Sorry. Been busy.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re writing. You’re always writing. What are you working on now, August?”
I scribble some of tonight’s highlights and shrug, my eyes trained on my messy scrawl. “Nothing important.”
The only thing Denae knows about my body of work is Tears of Glass, along with some editorials I’ve done for a few magazines. And other than brick-thick law texts, she doesn’t read, which is sad for humanity, yet great for me. If she ever picked up one of my books, specifically my latest one, she’d be surprised to find that she inspired a few of my more…creative scenes. The fire chief’s daughter, who also has a salacious affair with a hunky firefighter, was a law student with a penchant for role playing.
You know the bit… Hey baby, read any good books lately? It’s not just a cheesy line for me. It’s a test. If a girl reads, especially the romance genre, it’s an automatic stop sign. Because chances are, she’ll pick up a Hope Hughes book. And if she’s memorable, she’ll be in a Hope Hughes book. My sexy librarian, Louisa, is the only exception. She thinks modern romance is drivel and would rather blow her nose with the pages of anything remotely smutty than read them. Sometimes I recite Shakespeare while she goes down on me. Best. Blowjob. Ever.
Denae reaches over to rummage through her purse, pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights and sparks one up. She takes a deep draw and exhales with a sated sigh. “Hey, you mind if I smoke this in here?”
I roll my eyes. She knows good and damn well that I can’t stand the smell of smoke. Not since I quit three years ago. But that’s just because I hate myself for still craving it. “It’s fine. You’ve already lit it.”
I read over the words I’ve just written before tossing the Moleskine on my nightstand with the rest of them. It’s shit. It’s all shit. I’m so uninspired. I thought sex would break me out of this funk, but it only seemed to make me…restless. Unfocused. The heroine is all wrong, from her long, blonde hair to her perfect fucking tits. The hero is a cold-hearted, narcissistic prick, yet somehow changes entirely for the heroine. It’s too cliché. Too predictable. And while this formula has worked well for me in the past, my heart is just not into it now. I don’t get it.
I reach over and grab my phone to scroll through the messages again. Maybe Denae isn’t what I need. Maybe a taste of Maureen’s creative juices is what I crave. Or maybe Sunny’s youth and carefree disposition are what I’m missing.
My thumb hovers over the text message from Fiona, sent yesterday afternoon. I touch my finger to the screen and type out
a quick response. She answers within seconds.
-I’m alive. What are you doing? Playing doctor?
I don’t expect her to answer—it’s nearly two a.m.—but to my surprise, she does.
-LOL. You wish. No. Joshua has an early surgery. I can’t sleep so I’m rereading my favorite passages from Mansfield Park. How goes the writing?
-Slow. Hard. Torturous. But chicks dig it like that, right?
-Haha. You would know, Mr. Romance.
-(rolling my eyes) Don’t call me that.
-Just own it, Rhys. No one can write words as heartfelt as yours and not believe in love.
-Lies. All lies.
-You can’t evoke that type of soul-crushing emotion without actually feeling it. You can’t fake beauty so bold and so complete that it brings complete strangers to tears. No one is that good of a liar.
I am.
I stare at the screen, musing over Fi’s last statement. Denae has been prattling on about something she saw on How to Get Away with Murder, and how she thought it was insanely hot and disturbing and provocative. I make sure to nod and throw in a few uh huh’s to make her believe I’m still listening.
I wish Fi were here instead of her. I wish we were sitting cross-legged on the floor of my living room, surrounded by crumpled Post-Its scribbled with notes and cartons of Thai food. She’d force me to play Train and The Fray, but only the earlier albums, and I’d pretend to hate it while quietly humming every word from memory because I have all their CDs from when CDs were actually popular. I’d talk her through the story as I see it in my head, and she’d listen intently, telling me how each imagined scene gives her all the feels. My fragile ego stroked, I’d find the confidence to keep writing, to keep dreaming… for her.
Not for Denae or Sunny or Louisa or Maureen. Not for any of the countless women I’ve slept with in a quest for inspiration. I keep writing for Fiona. Because she is the only person on earth that can decipher my empty words and reveal my soul.
My cell vibrates in my hand and I look down to see another text.
-Will I see you before Friday?
-Friday?
-Dinner with Joshua. You promised.
-Oh. Yeah. That.
I remember. You don’t forget the social equivalent of a scheduled colonoscopy.
-You are coming, right?
-Yeah. Sure.
She reminds me of the details—7pm at some new hipster place that serves miniscule portions for astronomical prices. Which means I’ll be forced to sit through twelve courses of awkwardness. Awesome. And, yeah, I’m not strapped for cash or anything, after signing a publishing deal with a seven-figure advance, but the ruse of a starving artist only works if I’m not squandering a compact car payment on a single meal. People believe I’m a trust fund baby, and that’s fine when it comes to the ladies. But for some reason, I’m not cool with letting the Pantysniffer think I’m just some spoiled rich kid without any real marketable skills or accomplishments to show for.
-You’re overthinking this, aren’t you?
The words appear on my cell phone screen, and I smile.
-Only when I’m awake.
-Dinner tomorrow?
-Can’t. Meatballs. The Colonel has been looking forward to Thursday night football since I missed Monday.
-Ah, that’s right. I saw him yesterday. He looks good.
-He does.
-So lunch? I can take a long one. It’s supposed to be nice out.
I want to say yes, but I need to write. I need to feel the words again. I need to hear the voices. Yet, it’s gone. It’s all gone.
I look over at Denae, her back turned to me, and her cigarette stubbed out in an empty soda can. I’ve already forgotten what it felt like to be inside her. I can no longer feel the warmth of her breath or the smoothness of her skin. She used to be my inspiration. They all were.
My fingertips trace the sensual curve of her back all the way down to the top of her ass. She sighs melodically, arching for me, and for one brief moment, I hear the whispered voices again. The whispers are always the prelude for the words.
I tap out the message in lightening speed.
-Yeah. The park?
-It’s a date.
I smile. Talking didn’t work. Days locked away in the writing cave didn’t work. Even sex wasn’t doing the trick. Maybe some fresh air with Fi is exactly what I need to get my head on straight. But first…dessert.
“WHAT ABOUT THAT GUY?”
Fiona and I are strolling along one of the several trails at Riverfront Park, as we share a Bahn Mi sandwich from a food stand. I look over at the homeless guy leaning against an old, massive oak. His eyes are closed, and he’s smiling. Covered in filth and dejection, while complete strangers walk through his sod-floored living room, he begins to nod his head from side to side.
“He was a famed composer for many years, and had captivated audiences at Carnegie Hall in his heyday. His music was breathtaking…groundbreaking…and he owed it all to his wife. She had been by his side since they were children, and had always loved to hear him create magic. She’d stay up all night with him as he composed the most magnificent pieces about her eyes, her hands …the sound of her voice when she whispered his name. She was his muse, and he was her life.
“They lived in careless bliss until the day she couldn’t get out of bed. He carried her to the doctor, only to find that she would leave him soon. The cancer was terribly aggressive, and treatment wouldn’t save her. At her bedside, he composed his last and most beautiful piece. She died to the sound of him humming it to her, his head swaying side to side, his hand clutching hers. To this day, not another soul has heard it, because the moment she stopped breathing was the moment he stopped hearing the music.
“However, just now, in a whispered gust of wind, he heard her laughter. Smelled her sweet scent of fresh-picked cherries from their tree and Chanel No.5. He felt her warmth and goodness radiate all around him. He heard the music again. Just for one second, he remembered what it felt like to be alive.”
I feel Fi’s gaze on me, but I don’t look at her.
“August Rhys Calloway, how do you do it? How do create such beauty and heartbreak?” There are tears in her throat.
I shrug and look down at the ground. “That’s all life is—beauty and heartbreak. I just narrate it. Besides, it’s not like I’m changing lives here. My books are fluff and fucking, at best.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re burning up bedrooms all over America! Vibrator manufacturers should make you their official mascot.”
“They could put my head on the head,” I chuckle.
“Maybe they’ll even make a mold of your manhood.” She blushes and covers her face. “Oh, the horror!”
I laugh and shake my head. “Like I said, Fi… fluff and fucking. My stories are like The Wedding Singer of Lit. They won’t impact your life in any significant way, but they’re great for the time being. No one ever names The Wedding Singer when they’re asked about their favorite film. But if that fucker pops up on Netflix, you better believe you’re gonna watch it!”
She looks affronted. “I happen to like The Wedding Singer.”
I sling an arm around her slight shoulders and pull her into my chest. “I know, Fi. I know.”
We continue to stroll down a path leading towards the picturesque Spokane Falls, creating make believe backstories for unsuspecting passersby. Our little game first started years ago as a creativity exercise to keep us both inspired. Like me, Fiona was an English major, although she now works at a temporary staffing and recruiting agency. Real good use of that shiny degree, huh?
I take a bite of the sandwich and pass it to Fiona. “Ok,” I mutter, swallowing down the last bit of shaved BBQ pork and pickled daikon. “How about them?”
Fiona follows my gaze to an elderly couple sitting on a park bench. The frail, gray pair is huddled together over a scoop of ice cream, and the husband slowly feeds his wife a bite with a shaky hand, concentrating not to drop the cre
amy confection in her lap. She smiles as it hits her lips then reciprocates, her grip on the plastic spoon much steadier.
“They’ve been in love since they were children. Since junior high school,” she begins, picking at a julienne carrot. “He was a big, strapping athlete, and she was a quiet, bookish girl. He needed help with his Algebra, and she would tutor him after school. He thought she was lovely, yet she was much too shy to pick up on his subtle flirtations. Then one warm evening after tutoring, he bought her an ice cream. She insisted they share it. They fell madly, deeply in love over that scoop of vanilla, and they’ve been sharing ice cream ever since.”
Fiona turns to me and smiles, and I swear I hear a dreamy sigh leave her lips. “Isn’t it wonderful? To be in love for a lifetime?”
I cut my eyes at her. Must be all the pot in the air. The park is breeding ground for stoners.
I visibly shiver. “Love for a lifetime? Sounds more like a judge just brought the gavel down on my balls and gave me a life sentence.”
“Aw, come on, Rhys,” she says, skipping ahead only to turn around to face me as she walks backwards. “Could you imagine, waking up every morning to the woman of your dreams, and getting to go to sleep with her in your arms every night? Just think about it—no matter if you get old, or fat, or sick, that person will always love you. They’ll always want you. And they’ll always, always choose you over everyone and everything else. You can’t tell me that’s not romantic.”
I shrug. “Romantic, sure. Realistic, hell no. I can’t imagine it, because it doesn’t exist. No one values that in a relationship. No one sticks it out for the grand scheme of true love. You get old? Time to get someone younger. You get fat? Find someone thinner. You get sick?” I look back at the elderly couple, still sharing the last of their scoop of vanilla. The man is trying furiously to still the shaking in his hand, and his wife waits patiently, nothing but love and admiration shining in her eyes. Not a single drop of judgment clouds her gaze. “That…that’s not real, Fi. No one is that genuine and loyal. Not anymore.”
“I am.” I turn back to my best friend, who’s stopped walking altogether. “I am, Rhys. If you get old, I’ll feed you Jell-O. If you get fat, hell, I’ll get fat with you. If you get sick, I’ll hold your hand and tell you it will be ok.”