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the number-one law anyone whose anybody should know is that you never disturb someone in the bleak hours of the morning— especially creative minds on the verge of something either developing or devastating.
that's where the writer is currently. in that middle area of writer's block where you have enough motivation but not enough brain power to get your ideas going.
derrielle is sitting crisscross applesauce on her pullout. her phone buzzing quietly on the floor, she threw it there because she's easily distracted. she ignores it, thinking it's a useless notification from instagram or snapchat.
she squints as she looks down to her idea journal, where she writes the fantasies that could come reality in the near future. her eyes rereading the lead-pressed words, her mind racing as she tries to continue the story.
maybe she needs to turn a lamp on because, as of right now, her only source of light is from her strawberry lemonade scented candle. its wick dangerously close to being succumbed to the glowing liquid wax.
her bare legs wrapped up in the softest blanket money could buy, her hair is down and a bit wet from her shower— the air conditioning blasting through the small trailer.
smaller than she expected, considering she is writing for netflix, but it was cozy: her sage green three-cushion pullout couch; throw pillows placed everywhere on the carpeted floor; heath, her bombay kitten, purring peacefully on top of her mini fridge; books upon books stacked on each other in a little castle on the nearby table; just underneath it is her record player and her abundance of seventies records; her forest-colored kerig machine on her kitchenette counter, along with a small wooden box organized to hold her tea and coffee flavors; her closet packed to the brim of jeans, pullovers, cropped tops and scantily-clad tanks— not to mention her swimsuits and assortment of shoes.
"dammit," she mumbles, her hand rubbing her tired eyes. "gotta get this idea down or i'll lose it again," she tells herself, but she begins to doodle on a nearby page instead.
did i forget to mention that elle has adhd? so writer's block is ten times more difficult for her sake.
"fuck! no," she utters, "no," scribbling away her flower and closing the book. elle's eyes start tearing from exhaustion as she groans into her hands.
that's when she hears it. the faint knocking on her trailer door.
apparently, not everyone has heard of the law.
she peaks her head up, her eyes flickering over to the digital alarm clock slightly hidden by a court of rose and thorns leaning on top of it. she reads it: one-nineteen in the morning.
the knocking becomes louder, more rapid and more urgent.
"i swear to god if this is maddie again," derrielle complains, ripping off her blanket and turning on her lamp. "i'm gonna kill her."
she stands up, scratching her head quickly, before walking over to her door and unlocking it in a fast pace. "cline, you do know that there's a curfew, right?" derrielle whisper-yells as she pulls open her door— only to be eye to eye with drew.
"oh," elle takes a step back, he takes a step forward. "hi, drew, what's up?" she looks up at him: his hair wet and shaggy, his clothes made of red plaid pajama pants and a black tee that show off his arms.
"i've been trying to reach you," he whispers, the moonlight casting a new shadow on him. "do you have your phone off or somethin'?" he looks down at her: baggy outkast t-shirt paired with black bike shorts that show off her smooth legs.
"shit, sorry, i threw my phone on the floor," she smiles, turning her body a bit to let him inside. "come in, you must be sweating."
he nods down at her, grinning a bit in thanks as he steps into her trailer for the second time. he looks over to sit at her table again but it was like a library dumped everything they owned onto the small surface.
"uh, where should i sit?" drew asks, his hands motioning to the unavailable space at the table.
"the couch is fine," derrielle answers, closing the door and locking it closed.
"okay," he mumbles, taking a seat on the sage-green couch. he glances down, his mind automatically reading the slanted, almost script-like, letters on the old pages of her paperback—
...under the stars, they lay in secrecy. only the mockingbird can distinctly parrot their moans to each other. only the leaves of the touch-me-not plant flinch in disgust as it watches, how could they touch each other without feeling on fire? they can't, the only difference between them and the plant is, that they love it...
"what brings ya here?" she asks, quickly plopping back down in her seat, her hand grabbing her blanket and placing it on her lap. elle leans a bit forward, snatching her book from his lust-ignited eyes and placing it on the floor.
"i just want to make sure i play rafe," drew shuffles into his seat more, lifting up his right leg and folding it over his left as he turns to face her. "like, how you wanted when you wrote him," he motions to her, his arm on top of the cushions— giving her the perfect glimpse of his veins.
elle suddenly feels hot under his gaze. as if the air conditioning isn't suffocating the pair in a cold freeze.
as if the actor's caring and courteous words bring hundreds upon thousands of warm hugs, more fluff than the writer usually allows herself to feel.
"i appreciate your concern, drew," elle tilts her chin downwards, pinching at some short fur of her blanket. "but you got casted here for a reason and it doesn't matter what i think."
"but elle, it does to me," he says quickly, his hand falling on hers. she looks at his icy blue eyes, glimmering in the bright light. "i-i mean," he retracts his hand, blushing a bit as he bites his inner cheek, "without you, i wouldn't be here."
