Month: January 2011

He sat at the small table, laptop in front of him, pack of Camel Blues to his right, focused intently on the screen of the small Thinkpad. Ryan Adams played softly in the background as his fingers stroked the keypad. He leaned forward as if to see the type better. His black hair hung over his brow as it furrowed. His right hand went to the top of the keyboard, his index finger stretched out as if pointing to some casualty by the roadside. It landed firmly and squarely on the Delete key. He pressed it, keeping his finger poised on the key. The cursor moved backwards across the screen, first a few letters, then a word, then more words, backing through his thoughts, his emotions until the entire paragraph was gone.

“hrmmph.” The only sound he made. He looked up from the keyboard at the screen, then his gaze extended beyond the screen, focusing somewhere between his mind and the eternal sky. He sat like this for a while. His brow raising occasionally, deep in his world, immersed in the lives and goings on of the characters on the page, as if he was watching them in front of him, just beyond his reach. He watched. Waiting for what was to happen next. He laughed to himself as if he just played witness to a good joke. He woke from his trance, fingers poised on the keys, he types, slowly at first, picking up speed as the story he just witnessed races through his mind. His fingers trying to catch it before it disappears again. He leans into the laptop as his fingers now hit their stride. First a few letters, then a word, then more words, then a paragraph. Then another.

His gaze is at the screen but not reading the words that are appearing on the white background, his mind is still in the land when he witnessed the story unfold. Soon his fingers slow, he stares at the screen, his right hand reaching for the pack of Camels, like a scene rehearsed a thousand times before, he pulls out one. His hands so familiar with this routine that he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. He places the cigarette between his lips, then reaches for the lighter, automatically lighting it as it approaches the tip of the small white cylinder held tightly between his lips. His hands stops at the appropriate distance, he breathes in the flame through the tobacco, inhaling the first wisps of smoke. His hand places the lighter back next to the pack of Camels on the table. His eyes never leave the screen.

He leans back in his chair, keeping his gaze focused on the words before him, leaning back in the chair, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. As he does his lips close except for at the sides of his mouth, he breathes in through the small openings in his lips. A small sound of rushing air emanates, like a gentle whisper to a friend. His hand finds the ashtray, he taps the ash from the burning cigarette.