Click.

The pen comes out of its smooth plastic case and hovers above the page.

There are a million things he could write about. Easy. No problem.

If it weren’t for the slight lack of a truly brilliant idea, he’d be off and running by now.

He sighs and looks outside. Green. It’s spring and all the flowers and trees are in their full glory, wreaking havoc on all those poor saps with allergies.

You’d almost think the wonders of nature would be inspiring enough to give him something to write about, but she doesn’t bring anything to mind.

Click. Click.

He takes his frustrations out on the pen, which mirrors his own impatience for a good story. Ever since his wife decided to opt for a “trial separation” to solve their marriage, all he’s had are his stories.

He glances at the page that mocks him with a blank stare, satirizing his state of mind.

“Or perhaps the lack thereof.” He murmurs angrily to himself.

He’s found it awfully hard to write since his wife left him nearly a year ago. The possibility of divorce sows salt in the soil of his brain, making it impossible to grow any worthwhile tales.

Beeep.

The microwave announces the nuking of another delicious frozen parmesan eggplant in a loud, self-righteous manner.

He doesn’t want to get up. The microwave is too far away.

Why didn’t he sit in the chair with wheels?

Stupid man.

He shakes his head, resigned. What’s the point? He’s not even that hungry.

This is the third night he’s cooked dinner without actually eating it. Strange yes, but he doesn’t have very much left. He remembers a time when he actually used to cook alongside his wife.

The man closes his eyes and smells the oregano, the sage, and the rosemary; their delicate fragrances rising from the meat cooking in the oven. He feels a warm, supple waist encircled in his arms and tastes a warm, affectionate pair of lips kissing his.

How he misses that feeling.

His eyes open back up to the same blank page that has been in front of him for the past half hour. He envies that piece of paper. How blissfully clean it was. Perfectly in the present and free of the stains that blackened his mind; the memories of that, that...

Woman.

That girl.

“Admit it,” he says to himself, “that’s not really how you think of her. You’re feelings haven’t changed you soppy bastard.”

Fine then.

HIS woman.

HIS girl.

Could he help it? He’d been married to her for fifteen years. Fifteen years of being her closest companion, her confidant, her mate in the bedroom and in public, her HUSBAND for chrissakes! Didn’t that mean anything? Didn’t the happy memories that they shared count for something? Why were they not enough to keep her?

The memories flash in his mind in small bits and pieces: little five-second movie clips accompanied by feelings of longing and loss.

...That day at the university’s annual winter fashion show when he first met her. There she was: pale, perfect, and right next to him in front of the runway busily taking notes in a hot pink notebook. He asked her why she wasn’t up there on the runway herself and she had stared at him for a minute before blushing furiously. It was not long after that they went on their first date and he began to feel something awaken inside his heart...

...The night they had spent out on the beach watching the stars in the night sky. The night wasn’t that cold but he had held her close anyway, needing the reminder that something as wonderful as her could exist. They both stayed up giving the stars their own names and making their own constellations in the sky. It was that night, amidst the laughter of naming one particular set of shining lights “Rhubarbius: The Flying Donkey” that she first said that she loved him and he knew that she was the one...

...The breezy, sunny afternoon that they got married. The ceremony was a small affair and took place in her parent’s backyard in a little gazebo surrounded by forget-me-nots. He could remember lifting back the veil and seeing her shining, eager face that seem ecstatic to begin their life together. He remembers the kiss that they had shared that day that sealed the promise between them, which he thought could never be broken...

The chair creaks as he leans back. Why could he not just forget? He thought he would be numb by now. Didn’t he read somewhere that there is a point where things can become so painful that you couldn’t feel a thing?

He holds his hands to his face, trying to stop himself and hide from his own thoughts of her. But it is too late.

Far too late.

...He sees the evening when they shared their first kiss in the park. In the glow of the streetlamp, it had seemed as if they were under a spotlight that revealed their love for the entire world to see...

...The morning after, waking up in bed together. God he loved her smile. So innocent, charming, and sweet that it made him love her all the more...

...The moments when they had fights over stupid little things, like how the furniture was arranged...

...The times they had spend celebrating their made up holidays...

...The day when they...

...The night when they...

A lack of air from his slowly constrained throat finally gave way to his enraged sobs.

“Breathe,” he tells himself, “Just like she told you. It’s like having a baby. Breathe.”

He laughs suddenly and wipes away the tears with his hands.

Sentimental fool. He can’t stop crying. His memories continually torment him but he can’t live without them.

But there is something there...

Something that she said after that...

His pondering triggers an old instinct to search out food and so he gets the lukewarm eggplant parmesan from the microwave and sits down before the desk again.

The last thing she said...it was...

Remember.

That was it! To remember her. He had grown so used to associating the sentiment with their marriage that it seemed completely out of place when she said those words before they parted.

What did she mean? It wasn’t as if he had forgotten her or would forget her. It didn’t make any sense...

Except...

His nerves began to crawl as they always did when he knew he was wrong.

He had forgotten her not in the past, but in the present. From the moment he had began to write and he was drawn into the fantastical world of his creation, he had started to lose more and more of her as each day passed and finally it had come to this.

But what could he do? He could not pick and choose. He loved both; his wife and his writing. There seemed to be no solution...

But maybe...

He smiles. It might just be crazy enough to work and, after all, the best fiction is rooted in reality.

He takes out an envelope, addresses it to his in-laws where his wife waits for him to come back to her, and finally begins to write upon the lined paper before him.

This time, they’ll write it together.

All they need is a new beginning.

And he knows the perfect one.

“Once upon a time...”