Room 407; Saturday Evening.

[not_a_mused]

Cal had told Jaina that he wanted to write, but he didn't know what. Yesterday changed all of that. Sing, O Muse, of the catch of inspiration, clinging to the edge of thought and distress like the dog-eared page of a well-read book. Cal, suddenly, knew what it was he wanted to write, and, since his roommate seemed out, he figured he could get a decent amount done. Fingers flying over the keys of his Underwood, which seemed even more vintage than it even had when he got it, he wrote. He wrote about fingers through hair, about drawing close for a deep inhalation of scent, of skin against skin and the faint aroma of sweat. Of the faint curve of a body as it stretched to tie hair back, hair of different colors, brown, blonde, red. Of the taste of tobacco and smoke and how he hated the way it filled his lungs and filled his eyes and filled his head with memories. Of the bitter taste of cheap beer and persistent mouths. He wrote of things he'd experienced, but mostly thing that he probably never would again. He wrote of closeness and passion and the elusive fulfillment of longing and desire.

And when he finished a page, he pulled it lightly out of the typewriter. He laid it carefully, face down, on the desk, beside him, and then threaded in the next paper, quickly, to not lose his steam.

Tomorrow, he'd read through them again. Tomorrow, he'd probably burn every single page.

But for now, tonight, he wrote.

[[ door and post are open! ]]