I stared at it from across the room. It stared back, refusing to blink, trying to lure me into the game, stubborn as all get-out. Why were we at odds again? The gray mist had descended a few days back: tornado skies, sucking me into the center of their dangerously calm vortices: like the penny chutes at the airports, round and round went the coins, sans control and yet perfectly controlled, under the power of centripetal force until pfff–they were spat out, minus their dignity but exiting the funnel at last. Except that I was still swirling, furious at it. Emotions rocketed through my body. I won’t. I shan’t. I can’t. I refuse.
The pen eyed me, its gel tip shining ever so slightly under the lamplight. I shifted my gaze. I could be obstinate, too. Its sleek body called out, longing to be held, for the embrace of a century: Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth; Hepburn and Peppard; Anna and Declan (Leap Year). Much like the omniscient narrator, it already knew the end of the story, knew how I would come crawling back, yelling, ranting, in a fit of rage–but returning, nevertheless.
I suppose, though, that was precisely why I came back. The story had to be told.
The pen had won. Yet again.