The wild rice and the interrupted writing session

Today, during my lunch break, I sat alone in the conference room with my topper ware open and exposed and my little notebook flavoring the tip of my pen. Freckles of wild rice still stuck to the topper glass with remnants of my chicken just waiting to be smittened by my plastic fork. All was interrupted for my boss walked into the room to discuss my hours and schedule over some weekend responsibilities. I sit back to and invite them to sit, for I had nothing else to do. Prolonging the wild rice and chicken’s desired contact with the blades of my utensil.

Why am I being interrupted? I thought to myself in agony. Why now? I was on a freaking roll! My characters were making sense; the bus he was riding was getting strange…..but then my boss walked in and I had to put the little notebook away.

We discuss my schedule as the flirtatious magical moment of writing—something that has been eluding me lately—turns away and waves goodbye as it walked out the office conference room door. A final wink, and off he went.

Gone to the tappings of my boss’ pen on the glass table. He wondered if he should pay me like a contractor or like an employee with my additional weekend hours.

“Whatever is best for the company,” I say like a fool. Only hoping that my muscly writing desire would return back through the doors for just one more kiss.

Alas, I was left in the cold.

My boss and colleague left, satisfied to have solved the scheduling dilemma. Me? Unsatisfied and sullied by the unfinished sentence hanging on the very tip of the of my pen now too heavy for my hand. Dumfounded.

I turned away and watched a single wild rice un-stick itself from the glass and fall to the center of the topper ware. Ay, if I were to switch places with that simple wild grain—I would but at least express the dreary heavy feeling that comes with being interrupted during a writing session.


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