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“I’ve made minimal progress since you checked in three weeks ago. I’m blocked. Wordless. The heavy fog surrounding my brain refuses to lift,” I sputter aimlessly. This is the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced, and no matter how much I search for valid excuses or ways to break through it, I can't.
“Listen, you can’t milk dry udders.” He murmurs something I’m too brain-dead to understand.
“Excuse me?” I ask, so frazzled that I pour too much milk into my cup.
“It’s an expression. Like you can’t drink water from a dry well.” Baxter tries again, confusing me further.
“I think you’re trying to quote Ben Franklin. It’s you don’t miss the water until the well runs dry. And although it’s slightly apropos, I’m not sure that’s what you’re going for.” It’s so much easier to argue semantics than deal with the truth. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to write. Perhaps this is the end of the road, and I’ll need to live off the royalties from previously published works for the rest of my life.
Baxter stares, and his befuddled expression turns to anger. “You know precisely what I mean. You live in the middle of nowhere and barricade yourself inside your huge house, sitting in front of your computer from sunrise to sunset. If you ever manage to leave your house to join the real world, you’re on an island, meeting the same people day in and day out. You can’t create new material if you don’t expose your brain to new experiences,” Baxter lectures me, and although I want to lash out and tell him to mind his business, I am technically his business.
My inability to produce is entirely his concern.
My shoulders slump with defeat. Baxter’s right. I know he’s right on the nose. I’m thirty-nine years old, and apart from my career, I don’t have shit to show for it. No companions. No family. No fucking life.
“I’m working on it,” I lie, still too foggy to conjure a worthy comeback. No work has been done. I write. Eat. Sleep. Rinse and repeat.
“Nobody says you need to change your ways overnight. Two years ago, I was just like you. I worked twelve-hour days and spent my evenings with take-out Chinese food and true crime documentaries.” Baxter elaborates on a pathetic past that is still far more exciting than my present situation.
“And what changed? What did you do to shake things up?” I ask, genuinely curious about his road to redemption. As much as I’m interested in changing the course of my life, I’m also hungry for material to use in my book.
“I met Leslie. I saw her reading a book on the subway and took a chance to ask her about it. She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen, and I had to do or say something to keep her from stepping off that train before getting her name. I didn’t give a damn about the book, but I wanted to talk to her. So, we talked. We exited the same station, talked, and walked until we reached the front of her building. We were married eight months later and are about to become parents. Life is great,” Baxter brags about his good fortune and shoves a hefty piece of coffee cake into his mouth.
I’m not an envious man. The universe has blessed me with talent, reasonably good looks, and the ability to eat like shit while still maintaining a healthy weight. That should be enough gifts without asking for more. But it isn’t. Four years ago, while blowing out the candles on my thirty-fifth birthday cake, surrounded by family in friends, I promised myself I’d be a father by forty. I swore I’d make it happen, even if I had to date my way across the island of Manhattan to find the one.
In hindsight, I was doomed from the start. I hate mingling and despise setups. I went on three dates before I gave up. Two years later, I moved here, and the dating pool drastically declined.
I’m going to die alone.
“Hey Felix, where did you go?” Baxter waves his hand across my face, then snaps his fingers. “Do you want to show me what you have so I can return to my pregnant wife?”
My brows furrow. This guy has been rubbing his happiness in my face since he arrived, and I’ve just about reached my boiling point. I place my cup onto the saucer, clinking the ceramic loud enough to showcase my irritation, and huff, “No, I don’t want to show you anything. I’m an artist, and I don’t appreciate working under pressure. I’ll have the damn book completed by the deadline, and I’d prefer if you just spent the next few months bonding with your precious newborn and get off my ass.”
Baxter's lips part with surprise, then curve into a shit-eating grin. He sniffs the air and chuckles. “Do I smell jealousy?”
Yes, he does.
“If that’s all you wanted to know, I’ll head out. It’s early enough to squeeze in a run on the beach before I head back into my cave.” I stand and push my chair into the table. “Give Leslie my love and wish her a safe and easy delivery.”
He nods and removes his wallet from his pant pocket, placing his credit card on the plastic tray holding the bill. “I’ll email you photos. And I meant what I said.”
I look over my shoulder before heading out onto the street. “What part?”
“All of it,” he says, his voice tinged with frustration. “Finish your book and find a wife before you’re too old to play with your children.”
Great. That’s all I need—more pressure.
3
“Here, kitty, kitty! Come and get it, puss.” I crouch to my knees and crawl on the sunbaked sand, inching closer to the cutest polydactyl calico cat I’ve ever seen. This is the fifth day I’ve spotted her on my daily run, and this time, I’ve come armed with a humane trap and a can of tuna.
She freezes, and I halt my movements, avoiding eye contact to keep from spooking her further. This isn’t my first rodeo. Candy Cane Key has a legitimate stray problem—dogs, and cats—and I’ve made it my life’s mission to save as many as possible.
It’s a labor of love and the main reason I left the only home I’ve ever known to set up a new life in the Florida Keys.
“Come on, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you. Have a teensy bit of faith, and I promise you won’t regret it,” I whisper in a sing-song voice, hoping my higher octave piques her interest. Her head tilts to one side, her eyes wide with wavering trust. She takes a timid step into the cage, sniffing the air, and focuses on the open can of tuna at the opposite end. I keep a steady hold of the drawstring, prepared to snap the door shut as soon as her tail clears the entrance.
Two more steps will do the trick.
