Scene 14

While she is upstairs asleep in the heaviness of the first trimester, he begins to lose hope that she will wake up in time to make anything of the evening. He thinks of the family members that he has been meaning to call. His aunt, his uncle, his sister. He considers making an effort to call them all right now, but figures he may end up talking for hours to any one of them and really why not just do something for himself.

He should write, he knows, and creates a new word document. He considers some facebook fodder as material. An elementary school friend, who’s face he can’t picture offhand, is moving to Florida this weekend. A girl he worked with one summer has been awake for three straight days with her infant son who has a cold. A friend who just moved with his band to Toronto got a city permit to play guitar in the subway.

None of them sparks anything and he remembers a friend who wrote a story about himself having nothing to write about. What a luxury it is to write... he realizes. While it is possibly the most terrifying thing you can do that won’t kill you, you can always just write nonsense. Throw a fistful of magnet-words onto the fridge and see what happens. Switch some things around. Add a couple of cheat words and VOILA! It’s poetry.

Surely, it is as mindless an activity as giving a sound-bite to the sports media. He appreciates this, but still has no motivation.

Tonight he will eat something, or take a bath or masturbate and hopefully fall asleep.

VOILA!