Creative Writing

FOR WHEN YOU JUST HAVE TO FREE WRITE.

This couch is pretty comfy, if I’m being honest. The pillows are nice. My finger traces the raised stitching on the surface. Its oddly soothing, this continuous circling over whatever this design is. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel right now. The painting on the wall is a little crooked, and all I want to do is stand up and adjust it. But I’m not sure if that’s okay. I don’t know what the protocol is in this situation. It’s a very pretty painting, simple, a landscape. Nothing inflammatory or thought provoking. Nothing emotional. There’s a small end table that sits in the middle of the two chairs across from me. That’s ironic. An end table in the middle.

On the table sits a small clock. There isn’t a second hand on there, but I feel like I can hear the ticking. With every second another cent, am I just wasting my time? One of those fake trees sits in the corner by the window. The designer tried to make it look real by putting it in a little pot with some brown base to look like dirt, but its not fooling anyone. There are no leaves fallen to the floor, no watering cup on the sill, no drooping petals. It’s frozen. The window behind it just mocks of real life.

The parking lot has replaced what must have been ivy and trees, for they are growing over the curb and in the spaces they have left to preserve nature among the concrete. My little gray Ford isn’t visible, but I know its there, just to the left. The only car I can see is a red Suburban. I wonder whose it is. It’s got a lot of those silly bumper stickers on the back that no one likes to read. People always insist on imposing their beliefs on other people. I don’t care if you have a baby on board, I’m still going to speed. I might just try to look in and see if it’s true or not. And the fact that tennis players have fuzzy balls? That’s just weird. I don’t want to know that. Why does that seem like an appealing thing to advertise? It’s not that funny. If seven days without Jesus makes me weak, I guess I’ll just take my chances.

My eyes stray to the containers of tea and hot water jug that are on the table by the door. I don’t like tea.

She’s trying to make me feel comfortable. She’s talking about herself, about her family, about her practice. Her shoes are red; they are too young for her. She’s matched her lipstick to them, but not put it on very evenly. She wants to know why I am here.

Don’t we all?