Writing Furiously

He was writing. Furiously. As I waited for the woman to come back I peered into his open room. The walls were dull white. The furniture was dull black. And just about the only color coming from that room was the glowing green lampshade and golden lamppost. Suddenly his lips would curl up into a frantic snarl and then subdue as his eyebrows rose like a hot air balloon. Slowly but surely. What if the lead snapped? What would happen to him?

My attention sauntered out of the room and to the dust collecting on the front desk. I took my white shirtsleeves off of it and dusted myself. Her perfume was becoming fainter.

His arms moved quicker and my eyes darted back.

Quite an interesting fellow. I wonder what he’s writing about.

He started to pant as if finishing a race. Except he wasn’t finishing, was he? He was just in a rush to finish the paper. He tossed it to the ground and it floated dreamily, a boat in the summer.

Oh. I guess he was finished. He put his pen back in the little cup of pens on his desk and stormed out.

I felt tired, as if I was the one who had written a lot.

He was outside. The lady walked back into the lobby.

“Wait one sec.”

And I slowly entered the man’s room.

“NO! You can’t go there!”

I picked up the paper and started reading it.

And this is what it said.