The write kind of love

The Westin. Roscoe Village Pub and Pizza. Sal’s Autobody. Bic. A1 Insurance. Sometimes they worked; the words would spill out onto the pages smooth with ease. Most of the time they didn’t. They would start with a confidence that they could run forever, but after a few words it would halt with nothing but a meaningless dent in the page.

Her rusty tin pen cup was symbolic of her relationships. Sure, it was easy enough to find someone to go home with; the cup was jammed full of cheap ballpoints. Some wore caps, some promoted clichés. The vast majority, with no correlation to their outer appearance, were black or blue, but every so often she’d find a red one or, if she was really lucky, a green.

They come home with her in her pocket or purse, inadvertently, or advertently, stolen. Most were only for utilitarian use; the grocery list, a quick note that she’d be back in a few, a rushed signature on a greeting card. She didn’t experiment much, most took just a few careless scribbles to get them flowing. With her it took more patience. They’d first try to spin the top or flick the silver pocket clip with little response. Those who put in the effort would discover the small button down between the shaft and the grip and her ink would spill across their hands.

The day that she wasn’t looking for the right pen is the day that she found it. She plucked it from the tin can but then put it back; it had been written with before by someone who had held it tight, pressing the tip so hard that it bent the metal out of shape. But then her fingers fumbled across it again and it felt right. The perfect weight to balance across her fingers. It was smooth and deep and made her laugh when she had something difficult to write and forgave her when she wrote words that made her sound like an asshole.

She began carrying the pen with her, sometimes writing long chapters full of passion and drama and adventure, sometimes just doodles and lines and circles that meant nothing but meant everything. It was reliable; never giving out when she needed it most.

For fifteen years she learned to love and taste every curve, every signature, every line. And when it finally ran out of ink, after they had finished writing a life’s masterpiece, she held the memory in her hand until the day she could join him in inky black eternity.

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