Are All Writers This Boorishly Self Important?

and self destructive?

I had been working away on my typewriter for a couple of hours when he walked in.

“Write me,” he said, smirking at me.

I paused and looked at him through my lashes. “But we only just met,”

He came in again the week after, his hair was tied in a short ponytail with a blue elastic band. “Write me,”

I stopped writing for a moment. “Write with me.” I replied, tilting my head sideways.

He came in the next day and started reorganizing his wallet. “Write me,”

“Inspire me,” I said, almost purring.
He looked up, saw I was looking directly at his black card and laughed.

Two days later, he came in with a desk and put it in front of mine. “Write me,” he said after he set up and sat behind his typewriter.

“No.” I was resolved.

Suddenly, he was always around. He sat at his desk behind his typewriter, while I wrote behind mine. His typewriter was directly across from mine. If I looked up, we always made eye contact.

I kept writing and didn’t respond—was he even writing me?

Occasionally he would start typing rapidly, that was the only time I didn’t feel like he was paying attention to what I was doing.

One day he slammed his palms against his desk and came around to mine.
He leaned into my ear, “Write. Me.”
He said it softly.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and started typing again.

I wrote in pen when I was in bed, which was a lot more often since he showed up. The pen nib gently scratching against the notebook distracted me from the pain in my temple. “Write me,”

I gripped the side of my head and continued what I was working on.