Outside, there were fireworks going on. Inside, little stirred.
Outside, everything was noise. Inside, it was silent.
And she didn’t like the silence. She was sitting at her desk, and she was supposed to be typing furiously right now, but there was nothing to write about.
He sat behind her, on the sofa, reading. It was dark, and she had told him many times not to read in the dark, but she hadn’t the strength to tell him again now.
“What should I write about?” she asked.
He sat up and looked over his book at her. She had never asked him this. “Dunno. Something about … dunno. Or maybe you should … dunno, really.”
“You’re no good.”
“Hey! You’re the writer.”
“Just because you’re not one doesn’t mean you can’t have ideas.”
“Why should I let you steal my idea if I have one?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Let’s keep arguing. Might get an idea from that.”
“What’s it about, anyway? … What is it?”
“It’s supposed to be a hard-hitting article about shoes.”
“You don’t know shoes. Why’d you take it?”
“Sarcasm, love. It’s called sarcasm.”
“What’s sarcasm got to do with shoes?”
She started to explain, but then stopped and sighed. Then she heard him chuckling. She turned and threw one of her pens at him. It missed.
“Trajectory, dear. Paper-weights have better trajectories.”
“They’re also better at splitting heads.”
He looked at her for a few seconds, then turned back to his book.
“Maggots,” she said.