As the titles states, this is part two. You can read part one here. Otherwise, let’s get going!
He sighed again and took his pinkie finger and poked around the inside of his ear. He looked calm, though, on the inside, his heart rate was jumping into the solar system.
“I was reading it. Do try your tea.”
She pushed the saucer away hard enough to nearly knock over the glass. “I’m not drinking your poison. And neither should you. You were reading a book? Why? Why the hell would you go about reading a book? Is that why you’ve been off the grid for the last week or two? Because I hope that’s all you’ve been up to.”
“Tea is actually good for you,” he muttered and placed down the now sucked dry cup. It clicked, and he crossed his legs. “I don’t know why you’re overreacting.”
“First off,” she said, “you do not ever say a woman is overreacting. And secondly, it’s a warning sign. You’re reading. You’re drinking tea. Next thing you know…”
“Next thing I know, what?” he asked. Fixing her with a stare of so many emotions. The question hung in the air, and she deflated with its presence. She, though knowing what she should say, had a feeling in her heart of how much the next words would change everything.
“Next thing you know you’re turning into a writer.”
The man looked off at a window and said nothing. He waited, trying for calm, but still swallowed hard. He waited for her to say something. So she did, eventually.
“You’re not a writer, are you? Please tell me you didn’t.”
He looked back at her and tried the smallest of smiles. It’s a guilty smile. An embarrassed smile. A child with a cookie jar look.
“Oh…oh my god,” she said and leaned back into the seat. “I’m dating a writer. You did it. Please tell me it was only one time.”
He held her gaze. “Look in the book.”
“I’m not going to read. You are not going to make me.”
“Look in the book,” he said, “look in it right now.”
She moved like she was going to get out of the chair, her hands curled into fists. He placed his left palm on her leg and she sat back down, with a short puff of air coming out of her mouth.
She reached for the book, now laying on the floor. Once she had it in her grasp, she looked at him with fear.
“What’s in it?”
She thumbed open the book and flipped to a page. She squinted like her eyes burned from the images. The symbols. She mouthed something. The title. The author’s name below it. She looked up slowly, cautiously. Like he was a wild tiger.
“Why would you do this?”
“Because I wanted to create something beautiful.”
She began to tear up, putting the book back down and hugging herself. “I don’t even know what to say to you. If you did this…you’re so lost. I don’t know if I can do anything to help you now.”
“I don’t want help.”
Cynthia stood up, her feet uncertain. She took stuttering steps toward the door and swung it open. She sniffled, and in a quavering voice, tried to form a sentence.
“We can’t be together if you do this. I won’t be…I can’t be…goodbye. I guess this is goodbye. Why did you have to do this?”
“I’m a writer. I always was. And I want to create stories.”
“You’re sick, you know that, right?”
He nodded. A small action. A calm action. His eyes sharp and crystal clear. “I know. But it’s what I must do. Maybe one day you’ll understand.”
She shook her head and shut the door. The pile of blank papers fell over again.
He stood up and looked around at nothing in particular. Her tea was cold now.
“Right, I guess onto the next chapter then. I have big plans, big plans.”