I wasn't wanting it to happen. I was hoping it wasn't going to happen. It was impending, or at least it seemed impending. And I was morose. They sensed I was this way. In this mood. And yet they still felt compelled to ask me why I was so quite. I just shrugged. Murmured something. I can't remember what.
He studied her face like it was a cryptic crossword clue. She was standing by the door, he was on the couch.
He sat down before the typewriter, set his glass down beside it and lit a cigarette. His fingers began pecking at the the keys. His face wore a ponderous expression. He finished the paragraph and extracted the sheet of paper. He stood and read over the words, sipping his drink. Suddenly, he crumpled the page and threw it onto the carpet with supreme disdain.
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