Mistress, please treat me right.  You never let me sleep at night.  You’ve whispered in my ears for years and years.  You’ve caused a lot of tears.

To fall.  I recall.

Impudent.  Unashamed.  You ripped my family apart.  I was compelled to leave and make a new start.  Now you’ve nothing more to say?  Hmm—I know how you like to play.

A little hide and seek, huh?  What if I find you?  I promise to bind you.  I’ll make you speak and spill your secrets.

To the world.  Yes.

What do you have to say for yourself?  Put a book on the shelf!

Number one.  Top ten.  Great American.  The best over all the rest.

You think I don’t know?  You’re the Temptress behind the glow.  Bare flesh on my writing desk at the tenth-floor window.

Just staring at me.  So frustrating!  I’m pacing the floor, you little whore.  I’ve paid a steep price.  Now give me more.

More than a come hither sign with your index finger.  Add nine.  I need all ten of mine on the keys, typing furiously, please.

Don’t start something you can’t finish, Missy.

Kiss me.

I’m on my knees.  My face is intimately close to your lap—mmmmm! —but there’s not a single tap.  Just a blank screen.  Your Mono Lisa countenance is almost obscene.  You’re making me mad, or sad, or something.

Your sweet nothings mean nothing.  They’re posts on the blog.  Scraps to the dog.    Twiddle-twaddle.  Twitter litter.

I don’t like to beg but please give me a crumb, a hint, anything.

Talk to me.

Darling, this is so unlike you.  Our passion never dies!  Tell me more of your lies.

Tell me when, where, and how?  Tell me who?  Tell me now!

Oh, I get it!  This is a staring contest!  Baby, you know at midnight I’m not the best.

Mysterious woman, I never know what you’re thinking.  My cursor isn’t moving, only blinking.

Blinking.  Blinking.  Blinking.  Blinking.

Okay.  I lose.  You choose.  I’ll be right back.  I’ll pour the booze.

Gin—again?  Six shots out from a mad man’s grin.  Jack Nicholson in a haunted inn.  Sounds like a song made for fiddlin’.

I’m searching your clean white face.  Scrub-a-dub-dub.  Erase.  Erase.

Talk to me!  Yodel-Ay-Hee-Hoo!  I’m nothing without you.


Mistress, slap me, as you often do, so unexpectedly, out of the blue.  Make it sting.  I want my ears to ring.  Words with zing.  Sentences that sing.  With the thunder of the gods and literary lightening.

Just one true sentence.  I’ll take it from there, haricot vert.

Sultry silhouette, still not speaking yet?

You’ve made me throb.  Now finish the job.

Sweetheart, there’s no such thing as writer’s block.  Or maybe there is.  Will you look at the clock?

I’m going for a late-night walk.  Catch up with me, mistress.  Perhaps then we’ll talk.
Andrew Dabar