Where were you, Harriet?
I had a doctor’s appointment. I’m tired, so if you want to talk to me, follow me into the kitchen. I’d kill for a cup of tea about now.
Anything wrong, dear?
No, Martin. Just more of the same. Seems my hormones are screaming shrews and the Change is upon me. Is it hot in here? Christ, look who I’m asking…
Are you sorry we never had children, Harriet?
Sometimes I think about having grandchildren around, but then I remember the noise and uproar, and the hermit writer in me is content without them, especially now that you’re gone. Well, for the most part, gone.
Speaking of writing, how’s the newest novel coming, Harriet?
Pretty good, actually, dear. It’s coming along nicely. I’m not getting stuck like I was.
You were a wreck when you had writer’s block.
Yes, it’s frustrating. Interestingly enough I haven’t had it since you died, Martin.
Are you saying there’s a connection, Harriet?
You can’t honestly think that?!
Martin, I don’t know what to think I was merely stating a fact.
I’d hate to think I had anything to do with your lack of creativity.
You had a distinct influence on my creativity, hon. When we were young in in love, I wrote like a demon. As our marriage gained in mediocrity, the wheels of creativity came grinding to a halt.
Guess it’s a good thing I died when I did then, eh?
Yes martin, it’s done wonders for my career.
You cut me to the core, Harriet.
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