Re: Sitting area; sofa
The why had come in a dull little bottle chosen at random. It wouldn't tell her anything about him. It begged the question whether writers should be found in their works, didn't it? (No it didn't...)
It was with some effort that he scooted from sofa to floor. He grunted, and more dots of perspiration broke out across his forehead. He sat at her knee now, legs splayed loosely beneath the coffee table. She'd turned toward him, and he poised pen to paper square. He was at his instrument, and he was ready to compose. (Not touching that...)
He didn't offer commentary at first. He didn't care for breaking the fourth wall, and authors who spoke to the reader within the text were a pet peeve. He wrote. His handwriting was messy, tight with sharp angles where sharp angles weren't required. Her single words caused him to raise his head. "Peace while lost, or were you seeking peace?" He looked at her carefully. He could make her anything he wanted on his endless square. "Do I write a woman who found herself lost while she sought peace? Do I write a woman who found peace while she was lost? The latter." He nodded, repeating the phrase to himself in a voice like an undercarriage, meant to be unheard. "The latter. You became lost in the woods one day, and you were frightened at first, then terrified, then hopeless, then desperate, and then, when all hope was lost, you found peace." He grinned. "Someone could make a movie out of it. Sounds like an Oscar movie."
He snuffled a chuckle. "Was there a baby, or were you washing up in gas station bathrooms?"