By R. I. Miller
I stare at my laptop. The screen is filled with only two words, “And then …”
This story has been torturing me, hiding in a pit in my mind, playing hide and seek, not exposing itself for more than a moment. It’s a mess. It has to be, it’s about a relationship…I think.
“Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets, and little man Lola wants …” I thought that was funny when I first put it on my phone, now I think it’s stupid. I should change it, but not right now. I cannot distract myself any more, let it go.
I think I may have an idea. I am waiting for it to materialize.
The phone is still “chanting.” I yell, “Hey, I’m not answering!” Defeated, I look at the caller ID.
It’s Gretchen, I do like Gretchen. I answer.
Gretchen is looking for someone to go to the movies with. Her boyfriend is in California, somewhere in California. He’s always somewhere else, and also her sister is going to have a hysterectomy, do I know what that means to a woman her age?
I say that I can’t say that I really do, but I am sure it is difficult. Gretchen tells me that I am being a bit gratuitous. Yes, I tell Gretchen, I understand that I cannot understand, and I know that she, Gretchen, was helpful to me when I went through my last breakup, and yes of course I’ll go see the movie with her.
Gretchen likes movies about the end of the world. This time it appears that tiny invaders from somewhere in space stop everyone on earth from talking. I say, “How is that not good?” But Gretchen says it’s definitely a disaster movie and will I stop analyzing everything. I say “Okay, six tonight.”
It is four o’clock. If I focus, I can get at least an hour of writing in, maybe an hour and fifteen minutes…fat chance.
I think about the little tiny invaders and I hope they are not green. It would be better if they were colorless, and odorless also maybe body-less — no corporal existence at all.
“Empty” does not cover the description of the void that surrounds me, inhabits my thoughts, erases my words before I can get them out. I key in, “And so she” and then change that to “Then she” then to “Would she.”
Would Gretchen want to go for drinks after? If she thinks her boyfriend is screwing around, she will want to go for drinks. She will definitely want to talk.
All I need is one idea.
The phone again! I answer very loudly and rudely, but don’t completely finish because it’s Gretchen again and she wants to know if I had my heart set on going to the disaster movie.
I try to explain that I do not have my heart set on it, and that anyway, I cannot imagine that a world where no one talks would be much of a disaster, and that it would probably be beneficial. Gretchen says that if I really want to see that film she will go, but really there is another film at the little arty theater on the corner of Main and 2nd that she thinks would be better.
Gretchen definitely wants to talk about her boyfriend. She wants to go to a movie about lovers who never quite connect. Gretchen reminds me that I like the actress that’s in it. I do like the actress. She willingly participated in a remarkably memorable dream, for which I thanked her endlessly but she never came back for a return engagement.
I say yes.
Gretchen says the film starts in less than an hour.
I’ll be ready in thirty minutes, I say.
Focus! I move the laptop toward me, I am hoping the words will flow from my finger tips to the keypad, in thirty minutes I could write a good paragraph, a least a good opening sentence, maybe even a concept. The keypad is waiting, just one word, a beginning. My fingers only have to move, automatic writing, from the soul to the keypad so to speak.
I remember the dream. I breathe deep. I breathe out. Air forms a vortex around my nose, it feels cold. I try to forget the dream, I breathe in, my mind is a blank, my breath is escaping my body, through my nose, I transcend the here the now.
The actress is in front of me; I open my eyes and realize I have stopped breathing. Now I realize Gretchen looks a lot like that actress. A long string of g’s fill the screen. I lift my left index finger from the keyboard.
I concentrate, I imagine a point on the horizon, it’s so far away that all you know is that it’s something, or maybe a “what.” The character is not right, actually there is no character. The character can’t make up her mind, because she’s not fixed yet, not an embodiment. Time is escaping faster than my breath. Think! I am thinking.
I am thinking about Gretchen. A beginning materializes, “It is time to…”. Gretchen is coming up the stairs. She opens the door and walks over to me.
I realize I would to go anywhere with Gretchen. I start telling Gretchen that, but she interrupts.
“I thought you were kidding about writing a novel.”
“How could you think that? You know I’ve been writing.”.
“Yea, but only those bizzaro things you call stories.”
I start to explain again.
But Gretchen says, “You really wanted to see the movie about the tiny invaders, didn’t you?”
“No,” I say, “it’s you, this story is about you and me; I mean, it’s about us … I mean …us.”
Gretchen looks at me, no smile, no frown she just looks.
“You know,” she says, “I can never tell what you’ll come up with. Let’s go, put your coat on or we’ll be late.”
“But.”
“Later, we’ll talk later, after the movie.”
* * *
R I Miller lives in Maine. He has published work in: Glint Literary Journal and The Gentian among others. He has also published a novel, “The Touch of Bark, the Feel of Stone.”