Sometime around dawn, his eyes popped wide open and he found himself irrevocably, atypically awake. He lay there for a moment, mouthing half-hearted curses at whatever had yanked him so unceremoniously from his amorphous dreams. Silently, he peeled back the blankets and slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her as she lay wrapped in a coccoon of covers and her own deep, much-needed sleep.
Padding as softly as possible to the bottom of the stairs, he shuffled to the front door and peered outside, squinting a little as the first rays of early morning light sliced over the horizon. It was going to be another splendid Fall day. Cool and cloudless, with those brilliant colors sunbursting like living fireworks across the trees which lined the perimeter of their secluded home. He smiled at the prospect of a perfect day, then unhurriedly made his way through the dawn-lit livingroom to the kitchen.
His smile broadened when he noticed that she’d taken a few moments before falling asleep to fill the coffeemaker, making it easier for whomever happened to stumble blearily out of bed first to get that mandatory caffeine jumpstart perking. He flicked the switch, wandered back into the livingroom and sat on the sofa, drinking in the first aromatic wisps of the enticing brew, idly listening to the pot’s metered gurgling.
Looking around the room, not focusing on anything in particular, his gaze fell upon the desk. Her sketchbook lay open on the smooth wooden surface– which was odd since she never, ever left it out. It was a kind of unspoken ritual; when one or the other of them had something to share, some work-in-progress or finished project which they wanted to present for comment or crtitque, then and only then would the scribblings or tapes or sketches come out. And even then not without the breathless hesitancy and gentle cajoling peculiar to those who risk putting themselves on the creative line.
He got up slowly, moved tentatively toward the desk. She’d left it out on purpose, alright. Not only was it lying there in plain sight, but she’d even gone to the trouble to carefully place makeshift paperweights on the corners to ensure that it wouldn’t accidently close before he could discover its contents.
“Well isn’t that just like you?” he thought, shaking his head in amusement, “Poked me in my sleep, too, didn’t ya…then gophered back under the covers, no doubt…just so I’d get up and find this thing…and start the …” The room had grown utterly still. “…mmmmmm…coffee.”
In a matter of moments he was back at the desk; sipping happily as he scanned the open page under the lamp’s soft-edged circle of light. But what he saw there made him scowl in a way that would have made her gently chide him had she been there to see it. Several drawings begun and then scratched out with bold, dark lines pressed deeply into the paper by an obviously displeased hand. Near the bottom of the page–something small–almost a doodle. A set of blocks, the kind school children used–the one’s with the letters of the alphabet carved into their sides–stacked haphazardly with the letters half-obscured from view. A sort of teetering pyramid.
He leaned back in the swiveling desk chair, puzzled, staring at the drawing, wondering what it might be meant to say. Finally, his gaze was drawn to a single block centered at the bottom of the stack…the only one with its letter completely visible; the letter ‘L”–the first letter of his nickname for her.
He often envied her ability to draw. It seemed to him almost like what the psychics called “automatic writing”; an uncanny ability to tap into the deepest recesses of the psyche and render the unnameable with a few strokes of soft graphite. And in that instant he realized exactly what it was she was naming with this seemingly off-handed sketch.
“Blocks…stacked…pushing in…pressing down…trapped. Blocked. She’s blocked”, he reasoned.
The simplicity of the drawing–this illustration of her inner frustration–seemed to him the perfect counterpoint to the complexities of its creator. The actual cause of her block would be impossible to pinpoint precisely. Still, he had an idea from whence the problem came, if only generally.
Hearing her beginning to stir above, he picked up a bright red, flair-tipped pen and quickly wrote “We Need To Talk” beneath the drawing, then scooted off to the kitchen to make her first cup of the day and refill his own.
He sat on the bed with her, blankets tucked around their shoulders, basking in the scent of warm sleep and coffee; sensing her slightest movement, luxuriating in her touch. He brushed a curl of silky, auburn hair from her face and she smiled, grey eyes shining.
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Early Bird this morning?” Her voice was soft and a little husky as she finished her coffee and stretched lanquidly.
“Uh huh….something woke me up I guess” he murmered, fixing his gaze directly upon her.
She nodded, still smiling, and it was everything he could do to keep from laughing out loud. She was so good at this. Absolutely no hint in her expression or manner that she’d been the “something” responsible for waking him. He kissed her–a long, loving kiss–and said nothing, lingering on the bed as she showered, dressed and headed downstairs.
When he heard her foot reach the bottom step, he began to count silently: one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand. He fairly beamed when a tiny gasp interrupted his counting, floating up the staircase–she’d seen his note, gone right for it as a matter of fact.
“Gotcha!” he chuckled to himself.
He listened, bemused, as she paced back and forth trying to decide, no doubt, whether to march up the stairs and confront him about it, or pretend not to have seen it and simply continue to get ready for work. She chose the latter. He took this as a good sign; had his approach–his scrawled message–been out of line with what she had in mind, he definitely would have heard about it. With a considerable effort of will, he stifled a triumphant grin and joined her in the livingroom.
As he hugged her tightly at the front door, she flashed her best, pseudo-puzzled look.
“I saw your note.”
“Yes.”
“What did you mean by…?”
His shook his head. “Later.”
“But…but..”
He pressed his finger lightly to her lips. “Tonight” he intoned quietly, his eyes taking on that calm, almost steely look she knew so well. She blushed a little, kissed him and was on her way.
Standing there at the door, his mood became more somber as her car disappeared down the driveway. He felt himself being drawn ever closer to a very fine line. Was he on the right track here? He knew she was frustrated, even angry, about being creatively stymied, and he knew she could easily turn those feelings back against herself. That was her way…but those feelings, and the underlying reasons for them, were hers, not his. She had illustrated her dilemma for him, yes. But he had not been invited to “fix” anything–it would have been arrogant to assume he could anyway–and he had long ago given up his attempts at dime store analysis. What he could do was open an escape valve; provide a means for her to vent the pressure building up behind the blockage and, hopefully, give her the space to dissolve it. Judging from her reaction to his note and the ensuing conversation, that was exactly what she was hoping he would do.
“Sometimes”, he thought, grinning, “it’s better to forego the obvious and approach things from a completely different point of view.” Suddenly he felt very cunning, a little smug–and he liked it.
