Re: Sitting area; sofa
"My words are the only thing I need. They need to be the best words." It was true of this moment. He wasn't inspired without the drink, but he couldn't imagine an alternative at the moment. There was just the need to create, and that need eclipsed all other needs. That need might shift depending on the muse sitting at his hip, but right now it was her, and right now he didn't care about itchy skin. He scratched at his opposite shoulder.
He didn't shy away from her ministrations. Like a tubercular Keats, but our author didn't believe a thing of beauty was a joy forever. That felt like so much bullshit to him. Life was about pain, and this woman with the knowledge of scars had that pain etched in word and plain features. (This is getting pathetic...)
Okay, okay, so he hated pain. But it made his pen scribble harder. He jerked his head up when she claimed the words were his. "No. You don't understand. I'm for the words. It's not the other way around." There was conviction in the pained line of his mouth. He tried to unclench his back teeth. "What do you hope happened to the baby's father?"