The Writer Gets Muddled

The fire crackled merrily, not at all reflecting the way I was feeling now.

If you could put my feelings in a picture, you’d get a dank, dripping, humid, dark, miserable, lonely, isolated – ah, I think you get the point.

My hand dropped – what had gotten into me, lately? I didn’t seem to have the spark for writing.

I turned my head soundlessly, towards the couch, where Raine was sitting so he could be closer to the fireplace.

He looked solemn. I mean, rock solid solemn. Funeral solemn.

Geez, I don’t think I’ll ever get the gist of this guy. One minute he’s playful, the next he’s threatening, and then he’s funny. Which is the side I’m supposed to believe in?

“What are you staring at?”

I jerked back, as if I were shocked. “Wha – huh?”

“I see you’re using monosyllabic language. There is no point in talking to a brain dead tomato head.”

“I’m not a tomato head!” I growled back, feeling defensive of my hair color.

He smiled briefly, and then became serious again.

See what I mean?

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