Mar. 4th, 2009

thewordofweb: (wordplay: by shatteredicons_)
After teaching, I tend to have the same routine that most days carry. I'll stop by for food, I'll shelve all my books in my bag, and I'll look for new ones. Then I head home for a night of writing my manuscript (lately in bed, considering the number Joe and I did to our desk). I'll pop out and visit with the others for a while, but for the most part, it's a routine made in isolation with Joe's accompaniment when he joins me.

Today, though, I'm staring at a foreign object in my room and I don't know how to explain it. I sink down into the chair and pick up loose papers from the desk that don't belong to me. Then again, the desk doesn't belong to me. It's new and strange and looks expensive and antique.

And I think I'm looking at homework in Joe's handwriting, which would explain all the books on the desk that I had nothing to do with. Still, it's all too confusing and for a moment, my mind is starting to believe that Joe's trying to get me to switch rooms with him or something. I shake my head and keep reading at the work, leaning forward to grab a pencil and to start making corrections.


thewordofweb: (Default)

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