• A fast, steady beat came from the table sitting against a thick wall in a small dinning room. Too small to be called a dinning room, more like a work station. A tightly closed smoggy window sat high above the table and close to the tilted ceiling. A door sat on the right side of the table also shut closed making the room claustrophobic to one’s lungs such as Aaron’s. The room’s contour surrounding her was long planks of dogwood all lined up throughout the room and on the ceiling above. The floors her heels lifted off from were the same except it were dark oak.
    Aaron’s two bony, long fingers continued the steady beat. It was constant and fast as the liveliness of an African drum. Her soft puffy cheek rested in her sweaty palm as her milk chocolate eyes starred down at the fifteen pound typewriter. They repetitively skimmed the two paragraphs so far written and paused at the end, wondering what comes next.
    She breathed heavily in the hot, stickiness of the room and her nose trickled with sweat. Her body was so close to the table, every air craving breathe lifted her away from the table. The woman was almost stark naked and her skin still craved the coolness of the wind. The air around her vibrated with little sound: the beat of her fingers and the humming of the lawnmower outside the window.
    Whiteout in a small bottle shakes steadily near the typewriter. A bottle of black ink sat still father away. The machine was ready to skip to the next line.
    The beat slowed. A frustrated sigh passed her teeth and a moan from the back of her throat followed. She folded her thin arms upon the table and placed her forehead on top and moaned a wining tone. She starred down at her feet. Her heels were resting on the stool’s legs. A knot welled up in her throat and she swallowed it down.
    She thought of how foolish she was, taking on a task of writing a novel though she never written one before. She was foolish of letting the mocking words and the doubtful stares of her collogues get the best of her, instead of letting the guy next to her do it. As he sat so eagerly, waiting for her to say “No”, she did the opposite. She wasted her ideas on small children’s stories, what she’s known for doing so well in the small company. She let her selfish needs get the best of her and now she’s stuck.
    She blinked away the tears and sniffled. Blood dripped down to her white narrow sneakers.
    “Oh God,” Aaron’s head shot up and tilted far back. She held her nose and blindly wobbled from the stool to the door.