October 10, 2011
By Anonymous

She sat in front of her type writer. The paper was completely clean. The ribbon was new because she had replaced it over an hour ago. She sat there, staring at the keys trough the thick lenses of her glasses. She fidgeted in her seat. She glanced to her left at her book shelf. She had books by several local authors and by famous writers as well. All shelves were stuffed full, except one. The shelf in the far upper right corner had only three paperback books. She could see her name on the spine in big white letters. She was saving this spot for her own stories. Her last book had been published two Christmas’ ago. She regretted not publishing another since then, but she simply hadn’t had the time. Not since the divorce. She looked at the clock on the white wall, it was 10:13. She had the rest of the day to get something done. She needed to take advantage of this weekend. Her mind went back in time to when it all happened, when it had all gone wrong. She’s been swallowed whole by her own writings and she tried to make time for her husband, but she was always determined to finish what she was doing first. She hit her hand on the desk with a lose fist as she thought back to the day he left. He had walked in to find her packing. She had to fly out to New York for an important interview that could really kick of her career as writer and she could be known more widely. She didn’t realize she would be gone the same weekend of their honeymoon. They’d been married five months, but they had never had their honeymoon. She went off to New York and was successful, but when she came back home, she walked into a house that left no hint that she had a husband. Nothing left of him, except a note explaining why he’d left. She blinked and looked at blank sheets of paper again. She didn’t feel like writing today.

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