I'm sitting here trying to work, and I've got ideas for various stories, some fanfic, some original, playing in my head, and I keep finding myself staring off at nothing as the scenes run. I don't know why my muse works so much better when I'm trying to work than when I'm sitting at home waiting patiently for her to get her act together. Maybe she's really a three-year-old--or a cat--and lives for distracting me when I'm busy and ignoring me when I'm ready to play.

drabble

Our winter coats are a few years old, as are our shoes. Hardly prosperous. The doctor is a recent graduate. He looks at the rash on my husband's hand, studies his calluses and our general air of tiredness.

"This is easy," he says confidently. "It's bipedal-monomanual dermititis." He beams and awaits our awe.

Hubby and I look at each other. "Two-foot," I say.

"One hand," he says.

"Irritated skin?" we say as we look at the doctor.

Doc blinks. "You two know Latin?"

Hubby snorts. "Yes."

"Duh," I say.

Doc excuses himself, Hubby pulls his Scientific American out of his coat pocket, I go back to Ancient Egypt in National Geographic.

wrod.

You've had that doctor too?

Well, sort of, but I meant that more for the distracting muse. And it's worse because I was all hot last week...couldn't have missed. And that is so over now.

Connie, I really like that. I like the contrast of his expectations of you against who you are. The world's got a lot like that, huh, we don't often see the whole person.

sort of

That's what I figured when I saw the edit, but I initially thought it was a clever way to agree with both. They're not errors in posting, they're wry commentaries on life!

I like the contrast of his expectations of you against who you are.

The doctors at that clinic are a lot smarter now, though Hubby is still sometimes used as an advanced class in bedside manner. "This patient is highly educated, understands the treatment options, and will tell you if he disagrees with you. He generally has a reason worth listening to. Go, deal."

She can't take her eyes off his hair, and must force herself to pull her hand away once they stop kissing to take a breath. It's the softest she's ever touched, melting between her fingers, darkness needing to be held. He's thinking of growing it back, longer than the lock that falls just shy of his eyes, shoulder-length perhaps, or far down his back again.

She mumbles self-consciously about her own hair, still the same after seven years, and his fingers run through the near stubble, stiff half curls bleached blonder than the sun.

"Don't change," he whispers. "It's beautiful."