(by Cheng)
His tea had long since grown cold, but he drank it anyway. It was bitter and strong and he gulped it down without a second thought. The inside of the cup was stained the color of a stale banana, attesting to the long sad hours he'd spent at this desk. He made a mental note to wash it, when he actually got around to the strewn dishes and plates that covered the kitchen table. It'd been a week of long nights. Again, the small hand on his watch pointed down and to the right, the little pips that actually indicated the time were long since rubbed away. His head throbbed. The page was still blank.
It wasn't that he didn't have much to write. His head swarmed with sentences, words and phrases, just like when he was younger -- when he'd churned out book after book. Back then, he'd even gotten an occasional mention in the New York Times Book Review section. That was twenty-two years ago. He wasn't a good writer, not better than most, but he wrote. And that meant that phone calls from Tom, his editor, usually told him that a check was in the mail - not that he was weeks behind on his latest manuscript. He grasped for a sentence, just to get him going. He extended a mental hand, but pulled it back immediately. The hand was so dead, like a withered branch covered in old dried moss. He shuddered, and far away, he registered the rattling sound of a pen hitting the linoleum. At fifty-three, he wasn't that old. But his eyes were firmly pressed shut and he didn't look.
He hunted around for a happier thought. Long ago, he recognized that as his defense mechanism, the way that he escaped from the present time by hiding out in his mind. Back then, of course, those thoughts translated to words on a piece of paper and those words earned him money. "Idealistic," they'd called his work. It wasn't far from the truth; he'd created an ideal world in his own mind. One where he had kids; one where Stacy hadn't left after discovering how unromantic writers actually were; one where people actually lived their dreams of romance novel freedom and went on lavish European cruises.
It'd been years since he'd been to France. He'd gone with Stacy after his first book deal. They'd spent a real honeymoon laughing down the Seine and drinking far too much. It didn't seem to matter that they were pairing the red wine with the delicate oysters, even if their shocked garcon tried repeatedly to change their minds. It wasn't as if they knew what he was saying anyhow and they'd laughed off his protesting tone in a way only silly Americans can. He wrote nothing on that trip.
He opened his eyes; the world had righted itself. Impulsively, he moved to check his watch but didn't read it. The time was irrelevant.
Bending down, he retrieved the fallen pen, dismissing quickly the click of his aging spine. He felt slightly better and wasn't going to lose that feeling. He had decided what to write. It was to be a memoir, an autobiography of sorts. It wasn't the paperback romance that Tom wanted; but it was sure to have enough fantasy to make him happy.
While the water was boiling for another cup of tea, he pondered how he was going to write it. "Write what you know best, first" was the adage of his freshman English professor, and he wondered what that
would be. A mischievous grin spread across his face. He would write
from the end; start from the last paragraph and work towards the first. That'd be sure to get him writing, and maybe bring out some of his old wit.
He sipped his hot tea, the momentary scalding being a fantastic jolt.
He wrote the first sentences of the last paragraph without even thinking. As he lifted his cup to take the second sip, he reread what he just wrote, as was his habit.
There was a crash and hot tea spilled into his lap.
"At fifty-three, I finally had the courage to kill myself." With a start, he realized, wit is that which was often thought but ne'er so well expressed.