A Girl With a Fountain Pen

The crisp November breeze waltzes inside the dimly lit room, as I watch you from the corner. You stare at a blank screen, the faint blue light falling on your face. Your arched eyebrows join into a frown, as you struggle with your story ideas bubbling inside your head. Did I ever tell you that too many ideas bursting at once can hurt as much as having none? No I haven't —we haven't talked in a very very long time.

‘One idea at a time?’ I whisper but you don't pay attention.  

‘What’s wrong with me?’ You blurt out in frustration. ‘My imagination has conveniently set off for a long vacation, I guess.’ You heave a deep sigh.

I skip a beat when your hand moves towards me, but you pass me by and reach for your phone instead.

I watch you in desperation as you scroll the screen. 

‘It’s been more than 40 minutes, my lady, and you haven't written anything. Switch off the laptop maybe?’ I chime but you ignore me, yet again. 

Why did you even bring me to your writing room if you won't even look at me? Don't you smell the metallic scent of ink drying inside me?

Remember your school days? We were so close. I used to smile giddily as you filled me with royal blue ink, not caring about the blue stain on your soft fingers. I’d gulp down the ink, sighing in satisfaction, as I moved on your notebook.

‘Try me, maybe? I might help unlock your imagination.’ I offer again, but all in vain. 

You put the phone back. Right beside me. I yearn for attention, you know that? But you don't touch me. 

Getting back to the blank document, you type a few lines. I feel good, it's okay as long as you're writing. Suddenly, the room darkens, just a patch of light landing on your face from your dearest laptop. The electricity has gone. After a while, you groan, and the room has plunged into complete darkness. You’ve switched off the laptop as well. 

I am about to doze off when a yellow glow blooms. You have lit a pale blue, scented candle. Is it lavender or rosemary? I wouldn't know. You put the candle on the side table, and it warms my body. And right then, our eyes meet and lock for a moment. A smile flickers on your lips as you pick me up. Your erstwhile favourite fountain pen! Can't tell you how giddy I feel, my heart warmer than the glow of the candle light. 

You settle in the chair and open a notebook. And just like that, you are writing again! My flow is scratchy in the beginning. It hurts a bit but I absolutely don't mind. You shake me a few times, sloshing the ink back to life. I chuckle. And, this time when my tip touches the surface of the notebook, I glide gracefully across the page. 

‘Oh, the joy of writing with a fountain pen!’ You murmur, and I swell with pride. 

I can feel you smile, as you fill the page after page. Ink might dry again, someday, but tonight it flows, and so do we. 

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.