She was sat at the table when he came in.
“Is it I have nothing to say, or is it writer’s block, or that I dare not write about the only issues that mean anything to me?
“Which are?”
She smiled. “Afternoon naps and Mercano.”
“Like Chekov said, ‘don’t stop till your fingers break’.”
She lit her rolly, the flame briefly, beautifully blue, then gone like a life cut short; like an idea without the means of recording it.
“Need anything from the shop?”
“Just you come back safely.”
She picked up the pen, put her head down, and began writing.
Nice John, love that line “like an idea without a means to record it”