The End. The two words spiralled on the television screen, doing a taunting dance, prolonging that end. It was cold. The cultured chemical cold of an air-conditioned room that made my toes ache. I watched your face beyond the television, decapitated by its tourette-screen. I think you were writing when it happened. Your face was slightly angled to the side, slightly frowning in concentration. Sometimes you bit the top of the pen when you were thinking. It was a story you were writing, one you’ve been working on for a while, and never seem to get just right. But today was different, you seemed to be on a roll, moved by something…something greater than you. As if ‘as you often hear’ the story was being told, and you were just the medium through which it arrived by. I admit I often enjoyed watching you write. I felt privileged to be in your space, knowing that within that thinking whirring thing we call a brain, stories, novels, entire lives and personalities lay dormant waiting to be told, all of them sitting patiently in the confines of your mind, some not so patiently pleading and insisting that you tell it quickly, they were restless to be on paper.
On one of these days I spent pretending to watch television but really concentrating on you, that is when it happened.
It happened so quickly I cannot be sure I didn’t imagine it. But I was always the realist, you were always the one with the imagination.
I wouldn’t have been sure it happened. Except for the sound of a pen dropping onto the paper and rolling first onto the seat and then onto the floor.
It fell onto an empty seat. You had just been sitting there.
To be continued…