She kicks me out of bed, rumpled rolling tangle onto the cold floor. I cover my face as the cheap pen and notepad arc over the edge of the mattress.
My voice is a croak. “Now?”
She looks over the comforter. “Yes.”
I have fifteen hundred words when she leaves. She rotates among us. “Write,” she commands. “Write.”
We write until our fingers bleed. We have to.
I was the first to discover she didn’t like alcohol. As I drank and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, she snorted at me.
“You and Hemingway,” she said. I ginned, free of the muse.