Re: Sitting area; sofa
"I'm glad Dial and Irish Spring exist. Don't think I'd want to wash myself with animal fats. PETA wouldn't approve." The experiences she shared weren't for him to live vicariously through. They were for the page, for consumption, for other people to know her. (I call bullshit...)
There was a vanity to authors, that was true enough, and he wouldn't try to say otherwise. He didn't paw, and he didn't pull away. Why would an artist pull away from a muse? The entire purpose was for her to serve as inspiration, and she was inspiring him. The fact that he'd run out of paper was proof of that. "Being trapped inside yourself? How is that the same as being lost?" It made him think of madness. He'd seen madness, and it was never pretty. The only consolation was the mad sometimes didn't know they were mad, but he wasn't sure they knew to feel lost. "Those things aren't always bad. Chains are required in buildings and machines. Cops have guns, and they protect people. I don't know if people use arrows anymore, but they were for protection once."
He watched as she looked around, but he didn't move. He wasn't going to move. Either she found something, or he would keep writing stories about gunshots through gas station bathrooms on the table. Dead babies would be left behind, and a man would drive off in a battered car. What would happen to the girl? People would encounter the coffee table and wonder.