You wanted to write, but the blank, blue-lined pages seemed to wrinkle and shrink. Eventually you rip a sheet out of your notebook and finish the job with a few harsh hand clasps. You stare at the fresh monotony of lines and whiteness, hoping that pale gray words would just appear before you. You tighten your hand around your warm black pencil. You're squeezing so hard you can feel the blood pumping through your palm and fingers. The paper is still blank, voidless and madless. A buzzing that seems to always occupy your room grows louder, almost deafening. A shake of the head doesn't aleviate the noise. The more you try to concentrate on thoughts and ideas, the more distinct the buzzing becomes. You listen carefully now, hoping that the sound would shift into the roar of a furnace or the ticking of a clock. As you think of what it could be, you realize the noise is gone. You smile and look back into your lap. The page is still empty. You sigh and twist your pencil around in circles, cutting through air and creating nothing but a small disturbance of particles. You wonder why its so hard to write something when you're trying to write, but so simple when its an impulse. Brainstorming fails, you use your own techinique. You relieve your head of thoughts, close your eyes, and let the weight of your mind drag your backwards. The first collection of words that jumps behind your eyes goes down on paper. "The rain is always wet in Florida." you look down to see wrapped around the faint blue lines. You watch the words intently, hoping that they'd create something in the small alcoves of your imagination. You wait. You can picture a stout drunken man slipping out of his red sedan and into a heavy downpour. The light is dim and it would probably be dark if it weren't for the yellow glow of a streetlamp. The man rushes around his car, holding onto its sides for balance. He pulls open his trunk and reveals a small teal umbrella. He pops the umbrella up above his head and slams the trunk closed. You smile, its working. You see the man rush up a sidewalk, almost falling over into the black green grass that surrounds him. His runs up the sidewalk, jumps three concrete steps, and lands in front of a wooden door. The light from the street shines on his back as his knocks on the door. The man is wavering in small circles as he tries to stand staight. He looks up. The man is staring at the roof of the tall dull town house before him. He lifts his hand up, ready to pound on the door when it opens. A bright face appears, it is the soft youthful face of his ex, Melinda.

"Linda, honey, I can't stop thinkin about ya baby. I need ya, I really do. Look at me I'm a mess." The man raises his arms to show the annoyed looking girl his dirty shirt and jacket. He clumsily drops the teal umbrella behind him.

"Rick, you're drunk."

The man has a name.

"I won't talk to you like this." Melinda opens the door wider, she is dressed in beige slacks and a short terry cloth robe. The inside of her house is well lit. A warmth seems to bake in its depths and rise above her and the floor. Indoors is comforting and homey, obviously its something that Rick must miss. He is reaching out his hands, trying to grab the sweet aromas the linger inside.

"Me Linda, please baby, plah ease baby I miss ya." Rick tries to move closer but Melinda retaliates.

"Leave Rick. Come back when you aren't drunk."

"Aw now I ain't no drinker,"

"In that case, don't stop by again. Are you sober at all anymore? Or are you always reeking of liquor and lies? When I said we should stop dating, I meant it. We really should. I don't want to see you anymore. Things won't get better." Rick is taken aback. He stumbles in his stupor and briskly steadies himself.

"Melinda! Uh hu, theres no such thing as through with me and you baby. You know you want me back. I can see it in those god darn eyes of yours. Its called lust honey, and I knows you gots it fur me." Rick begans to chuckle loudly and sleezily. Melinda is disgusted.

"You don't know what lust is," she sneers and slams the door shut. Rick falls backwards and onto the thick cold and wet pavement of Melinda's doorstep. His eyes are lost and hazy as he sits motionless in the rain. When he notices the heavy drops falling on his head he looks skyward angrily. He shoots the clouds above the finger and grabs his umbrella beside him. With its assistance, Rick pushes himself up to a standing position. He is sober mentally, but physically he needs the help of a cane. The umbrella will do. He slowly makes his way back to the street, through the darkness towards the dim glow ahead of him. Light bounces off his water swollen cheeks. He opens his trunk and throws the open umbrella in. The lid of the trunk smashes it as he shuts the heavy metal over the delicate teal. Using the car for support, Rick makes his way to the passenger door. He fumbles with his keys but finally find the right one and the door lock. He opens the door and falls onto his red felt car seat. He's deep in a daze, not even bothering to shut the car door. Rick groans as his head tilts back to take in more air.
"Fuckin Floor-da. Always fuckin rainin."

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