It's too late. The sentence is doomed. She walks past towards the counter and my chain of thought snaps into the swaying curve of her hips. She pulls out a few slices of bread and glances at me over her shoulder.
'Want one?'
'Yes, please.'
I take a few more moments to admire the shape of her and return to typing, trying to remember what line it was that had inspired my pride, if for a few seconds only. I had to get the words right again, and the voice and how the voice said them...
She walks over and holds the sandwich to my mouth. I take a bite and she places the rest on the table, pulling gently on my ear-lobe before she goes and curls up on a sofa with her own sandwich.
'You've been at it since the morning.'
'Yeah.' I keep my eyes on the screen.
'What are you writing about?'
I lean back in my chair, sighing. It's no use. The line is out of reach. It's the same words, I'm sure, but it doesn't feel the same anymore. I reach for the sandwich and make short work of it.
'A girl,' I tell her.
To my surprise, this seems to have caught her interest. She usually doesn't care what I write about. 'A girl?' she repeats.
'Yes.'
'Is it me?'
I begin to laugh at the transparency of the question. And the laugh dies when I see her sitting there with her legs folded under her; her hair drifting in the light as she smiles expectantly at me.
How am I to refuse her when the sun conspires against me so.
'Maybe,' I murmur.
'What's her name?'
'I don't know yet,' I admit.
'What have you written about her?' She comes and stands over my shoulder to peek at the screen. She has never done this before. I close the laptop screen and turn to smile at her. She looks back unimpressed.
'You should get a type-writer,' she suggests.
'I edit too much.'
'All the real writers have one. I could get you one for your birthday.'
'I already told you what I want for my birthday.'
'That's not happening.'
I chuckle and then consider the seriousness of her offer. 'Don't get me a typewriter. I don't even know what my sentence is going to be until I'm halfway through it. And then I have to say it again. With conviction.'
'Suit yourself,' she says and walks away towards the stairs that curl up out of the lounge. 'I'll take a shower. You have fun with your girl.'
'I've tried to write you things before,' I confess.
She pauses on the stairs and looks back at me. 'And?'
'I couldn't. You make me forget all the words.'
She couldn't turn back fast enough, and I catch her smile and keep it forever.
