This Thing Between Us

then

one-hundred-and-sixty-two days until deadline

Three days is how long it takes for me to wake up.

With my limbs and duvet tangled, I role out of bed, and lie on the floor until the office phone starts ringing.

In that time, I have realized how stuffy it is in here. It is full of unfinished ideas and books that will never be. I close my eyes, in an effort to let sleep take me again. It works every time, except today. Today I am suffocated by my covers, and suffocated by everything I could be doing. My ponderous state of a body still refuses to move, so I lay there with heavy breaths, waiting for something to happen. That's when I hear the phone.

I pick myself off of the wooden floor, in my dramatic style, and pad towards the hall way. The hall way leads to the kitchen and living room, which at the far end leads to the office. Where someone is calling me for the third time now.

In the living room, I give myself time to breath, I prop myself against the window sill, feeling the sun filter through the blinds. The air inside here is better, a bit more new. And still I crack open the windows, letting outside flood in. It brings the chirps of birds, the traffic of city roads, and the hush voices of busy people below. I try to concentrate on the people, I feel comfort imagining I'm not alone. Their conversations carry me away, as I picture cars talking to each other, and butterflies dancing. The people disappear, and it's just me in my own space, pen to paper, and I write.

...

I cannot.

I feel myself floating out of my happy place. Tears prick my eyes, and I so desperately want to cry.

I feel myself empty.

On any other day I would lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling until the sun sets, but today is not any other day. Today I refuse to give up, so I make my way to the office, where I hesitantly pick up the phone.

"Jesus, Noah, took you a while."

It's Peggy, I knew it would be, but I still act surprised. I can hear foot steps, sounding like the clack of heels, and I wonder if she's outside, maybe even on my street. From the office window, however, I cannot see a road. I am greeted by a big patch of grass; a park, I suppose. Either side of the park, has a row of trees. Mum would know what type of plant they are. The park is surrounded by tall buildings, like a big fence, capturing nature. I wonder if the trees will ever grow higher than these buildings, if they'll poke over the sky line, like a child escaping from his crib.

"Pegs, I'm busy." My feet carry me in steady circles around the room. I count the light wooden floor boards - because this is what I always do. And I can tell Peggy knows I'm stampeding in my office, because I am mumbling under my breath, counting out loud so I don't forget which number I am at, and I always do this, and Peggy just knows me like that.

It takes time for her to reply, she is talking to someone else, but I can only make out hushed voices, as she must be covering the mic with her hand. But when she does reply, I know she doesn't believe me. She says, "Doing what exactly?"

Panicking, I glimpse around the room. It is a long but slim room, and it is mostly empty. On one of the longer walls is an arched window, and under this is my desk. On the left wall is a big bookshelf, but is bare apart from a few ornaments and books I'll never read. I remember what I'm supposed to be doing: filling that bookshelf with books of my own. I tell her this, I say I'm "..writing?!"

"Bullshit," Peggy spits, " you never tell me when you're doing something, so by bluntly telling me you are 'writing', I know for a fact you are not fucking 'writing'."