small town girls




Another Deadline
by Slip

Why does it always seem like I'm on deadline? I finish a story, place the copy, and BAM, I'm doing it all over again. I'm sick of layouts, I'm sick of editing, but most of all I am sick of this room. Is it me, or is it quiet it here? Always quiet.

It wasn't always like this. I love writing. It's who I am. My every hour, waking or not, is spent molding and shaping sentences.

But every time I see her, my words fail me. My usual wit and humor evade me, and I'm left to fend for myself, as she stands there completely composed.

Of course there's no reason for her to be anything but casual. The simplest smells, briefest glimpses and lightest of touches don't bother her. I've prided myself for years on just how observant I can be. I notice things other people don't and that always put me a step further than them. Now it works against me and all I can see are the little things she does.

And each time this happens, I remember that though I know every move she makes, she doesn't notice a thing I do. I'm Clark's 'weird' friend. I'm that newspaper reporter. Not Chloe. Not me.

This is what I think about when I write. My mind rambles on about the latest addition to my Wall of Weird while my fingers draw teensy hearts and flowery 'L's.

I don't draw hearts. I don't lament about unrequited love·please tell me love is too strong a word. Please. I don't think my remaining sanity could take it.

The quiet seems to blanket me and if I'm forced to stay in this room any longer, it'll suffocate me. I'm sure of it. But if I leave I could run into her. That is definitely not a good thing.

So, I'll stay in here, with my words and my computers and my quiet. And I'll pull out a red pen and rewrite the same sentence I've been writing for three hours straight and pray my next thought isn't of her.