The New Pen

It began with fresh sheets.
The soft blue cotton smoothed over the shape of us. I had the windows open, and the breeze made the curtains roll like waves. Everything was so pefectly clichéd.

I turned the music up. The Drifters, Solomon Burke, Otis Redding. I couldn't bring myself to listen to anything else. I still can't.

You put the tea cups down on the windowsill and took my hands in yours. Twirling us into the afternoon glow.

Later, laughing, I fell into the closest chair and you handed me a pen. Blue ink, fine tip. Tiny birds scattered along the shaft. Completely tacky, incredibly lovely. I felt an itch to write with it.

To write something. Anything.

So I did.

Your simple gesture was like fixing the washer in the bathroom tap.

Suddenly there's water.