Lisa liked many things. She liked Georgia font, how its letters gave one another little spaces.

She also liked him. Richard. She was fond of his vibrant energy, his wide smile, his infectious laughter and carefree persona. She liked taking a moment longer to feel his bricked-like torso when they hugged. She cherished that writing made it possible for them to meet, it made them friends. And she wished they were like Georgia letters.

She would think of him. A minute in months. It never made sense. Was it to?

In that meaningless minute, she would wonder how it would be like being with him. Not for the long run, for she was convinced she would not be able to put up with a lot from him. She was also sure that whatever it was that they had had no future. Not that it was something she would not want to take, it was something he would not be willing to give.

So, their story. Their story of a writing affair. Lisa pictured herself and Richard on the floor. One laptop, two mugs of coffee, a kettle full of coffee, snacks, books all over, one scribbled notebook and a pen. A blanket covering their feet. That evening, Lisa imagined writing a script with him. A 12-hour writing challenge. The two were to come up with something that would leave them contented. A masterpiece. One story, two passionate writers.

That he was a man who would suck her in like air through a straw sucks water, getting her stuck in there, ridiculing her, that he could choose to suffocate her, or consume her, or force her out of it, that she would be powerless intrigued her but also scared her.

They shared ideas while writing. He showed her things she thought she didn’t know and things she really didn’t know. She was stunned by how she was bold enough to tell him she didn’t know those things and doubly stunned by how eager he was to show her. She chose to let him see right through her and he welcomed it all. And there they were, in their zone, their writing zone. A zone of deep sensations, of serenity, of enjoyment. A zone that was firmly bordered, bounded, not even dust or wind could make their way into it.

They listened to each other’s ideas. They argued. She sulked. He teased. She laughed. They laughed. That laughter that filled the room with the scent of coffee. He whispered. She breathed. Writing the script passionately.

Lisa was mesmerized by how he listened to her, by how he looked at her. How they sincerely locked eyes as though those eyes were telling each other deep-seated secrets the two were unaware of. She came up with twists and he rewarded her with turns. She was amazed by their meeting, the meeting of minds. Such a powerful embrace.

The following morning, they would part ways. They would never meet again, and this made her sad. He would never call again. And she would not call too because he might ignore her phone call. She would not be able to tell him these things. She would not want to be hurt again. And maybe, in one of those ‘minute in months’ episodes that she would have again, she would shrug off her fears and would dial in… 07…

Until then, she could see him forget about her. She could see him forget her. She could see him easily erase every memory of their script, the hissing as they sipped their coffee, their cuddles while they shared their laptop, their blanket covering their feet when it got cold. She could see him looking for another woman to write another script with and she would tell herself that it won’t be great as theirs.

She hated his recklessness. It was reckless of her to dream of this but somehow, this reckless fantasy enthralled her. That he was a man who would suck her in like air through a straw sucks water, getting her stuck in there, ridiculing her, that he could choose to suffocate her, or consume her, or force her out of it, that she would be powerless intrigued her but also scared her.

This was why it would just end to be a writing affair.

And the affair ends.

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