This is nowhere he has not been before. The clock ticks slowly to fifteen minutes to four. Florescent lights belie the passage of time. The world moves without him and is cryogenically frozen in a meeting room on the lower level of his library. His Macbook hums as he scrapes the bottom of his empty cranium for creativity. He has not put words on paper, attempted to fill a black canvas with words and nothing more in so long the sound of his own typing feels foreign, alien his own craft has become. There is panic in the clatter of his illuminated black laptop keys: has he lost it? What is it? The dry erase board is smeared with the remnants of marker, fuzzy smears of color left behind by erasers, pushed side to side on the greying board by the eraser, light as a feather. He is starting to abuse clichés. He wants to run off a cliff but the coffee has made him weak, subdued by still functioning, a zombie slowly losing his humanity.
Where is she?
Kiss me, she whispers, her breath tickling the fine hair of his ears, sending a small shiver down his back. Kiss me, she pulls at this shirt collar gently, a trail of her scent where her fingers touch him. Make love to me, she brushes her nose against his and he feels her warm breath on his lips.