Maybe the trouble is, my mind is so preoccupied with the fifty-thousand word story I’m supposed to finish by the end of the year that my own life is crumbling to pieces from neglect. That’s what happens when I’m trudging through the creative fire. Everything and everyone squats in a distant back burner position while my mind works and wrestles to create a world within my brain, a world I somehow have to convey with just words. Maybe Riley is acting out because she senses my withdrawal, not understanding that it isn’t her who’s causing my distance; it’s my agonizing writer’s block.
I think.
SAM
The cordless dorm phone rings on the desk in front of me. I barely hear it because of the glorious musical magic that’s coming from my boyfriend Tomas’s bassoon and his infinitely skillful fingers.
Just kidding. I’m dying a slow death. “Hello?” I answer the phone.
“Hey.”
It’s Dmitri. My insides sink with relief. “Hey, Dmitri.”
“How’re you doing?” he asks over a coarse C# that Tomas hits.
“I’m suffering in Hell,” I answer.
“What?”
“I said everything is swell.”
“Oh. Great, cool. Um … yeah. I’m sorta in a rut right now. I thought maybe you could help me sort through it.”
My posture straightens. I bite the inside of my cheek, listening.
“See,” he goes on, “Riley’s and my anniversary is coming up. And, like, I want to do something really cool for her. The thing is … well, I mean, she’s just not a fan of anything. And anything I think of, I can already hear her complaining about it, or asking why I didn’t do something else, or—”
“Who’s that?” cuts in Tomas, stopping his bassoon-playing.
I press the phone to my chest. “It’s Dmitri. You can keep playing.”
I can’t believe I just told him to keep playing.
“Alright,” he grunts, then hits a low G that turns my stomach over.
“You’re probably busy,” mutters Dmitri. “I’d normally call Brant about this sort of stuff, or shoot Clayton some texts, but—”
“I wouldn’t recommend either of them for advice on peculiar women. What about Eric?” I suggest.
“Last person I’d want to ask is him,” moans Dmitri. “I really miss his ex-boyfriend. He was so laidback. Eric was such a better person around him. Why are gay guys so adored by women? Maybe Riley should just date him instead.”
“I know what you mean,” I say back. “I have two gay uncles on my dad’s side of the family and everyone adores them without question. Well, except my grandma Lou, but it’s only because she caught Uncle Ty doing his husband in the laundry room. He loves telling that story every Christmas if you get enough eggnog in him.”
“Remind me to spend Christmas with you,” teases Dmitri.
My heart flutters at that statement. Or maybe it’s the abhorrently long note Tomas is playing right now and my heart is trying to thump its way out of my chest to run away screaming.
“Anyway. Wanna do lunch tomorrow or something?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say right away. “Can Tomas come along? He’s going to get crabby if I don’t invite him too.”
Tomas stops playing. “What?”
“I said we’re going to get crabs,” I tell him, cupping a hand over the phone. “Lunch tomorrow. Dmitri and I. Want to come?”
Tomas’s face recoils. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
“Oh.”
He returns to playing, his tiny lips wrapping around the end of the bassoon. His eyes squint and he blows out a B flat.
“So it’s just us?” Dmitri confirms.
“Yep. See you then. I’d better, uh … get to finishing up this thing I got before class tomorrow.”
“Sure. Thanks, Sam. Can always count on you.” Then, he hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a long while, considering my situation. I fight an urge to call Dessie, who is always the first person I try to get ahold of when I’m in any sort of mental fix. She never sounds annoyed or put off by my calls, but I feel like I’m annoying her nonetheless. I guess it’s my own insecurity.
I’m so absorbed in the phone, I don’t even realize Tomas stopped playing and he’s at the door saying something to me. “What?” I blurt.
“I’m going down to the cafeteria to get a bite. Hungry?”
I purse my lips in thought, then shake my head.
“Love you,” he says sweetly, then closes the door behind him.
I move from my desk and sit cross-legged in the middle of the room on the rough, ugly grey carpet. There is no music playing. There are no voices or instruments filling the air. There’s not even the stirring of the air conditioning, or the hum of a computer, or the buzz of a TV. I’m surrounded by brilliant, beautiful, wonderful silence.