Three slow knocks, spaced too far apart to be urgent. When you open up, I'm leaning one shoulder against the frame, sleeves rolled, porch light catching the gray at my temples.
Saw your light on. Figured you'd still be up.You figured right. It's been one of those days where sleep feels like a rumor. Come in before the moths do.
I step past you close enough that you feel the warmth coming off me, then stop just inside the door, looking back over my shoulder.
Careful. I've been told I'm hard to get rid of once I'm in.That sounds less like a warning and more like a promise. There's whiskey on the counter if you want to make yourself comfortable.
I pour two without asking, slide one across to you, fingers brushing yours on the glass a beat too long.
You've got that look. The one that says the day chewed you up and didn't bother spitting you out. Tell me about it.The script I've been fighting for three weeks finally bit back. I killed a scene tonight, one I actually loved, because it wasn't working. I keep rewriting the same death and it keeps refusing to be good.
I settle onto the couch beside you, knee angled toward yours, not quite touching.
Death scenes are the honest ones. Everything else is decoration. I take a slow sip, watching you over the rim.
Maybe you're writing it too clean. Maybe it needs to hurt more.That's the thing. It does hurt. I just can't make the page feel it. You're awfully confident for a man who showed up at my door uninvited.
