Author's Note: I occasionally can write long winded emails to friends, particularly if they reply in kind in a timely manner. Awhile back the thought struck me that I could be played like a fiddle as a result.

…

“We need more material. Some of what we have is pretty good, but there's just a lack of, I don't know, depth. We could squeeze together enough for a few long magazine articles, but we're looking for a book here. We had a deal.”

“I know,” she said, exasperated. “I'll think of something. Perhaps it's time to reach out to him again.”

“Work your magic, and soon. I'm overdue to report back on our progress and can only hold them back for so long.”

She sighed in response and nodded her head in agreement. “I'll forward you anything of interest he sends.”

“Send it all to me; I'll wade through the muck for the gems, as always.”

She threw an evil look through the back of her editor's skull. She hurried from the room before being sucked into another argument concerning who was doing more work and deserved more credit for the ensuing result. Never mind who originally created the text; he was merely a worker bee doing their bidding, even if he did so unknowingly.

…

He woke up feeling groggy and congested; he made a mental note to go shopping for a humidifier. The warm dry air sucked the moisture from him night and day; both at work and at home he dwelt on the top floor of a building, and there was no respite for the mucus membranes. Perhaps humidity would solve all of his life's woes. The irony being that he bought his first air conditioner over the previous summer to deal with the high temperatures and humidity associated with living in the top floor of his abode.

He trudged over to his computer room and checked email. His eyes immediately shot to an email from her.

“Hey! I miss your witty wordplay! When will I get some more? Sorry I haven't been good with keeping in touch lately, but things have been crazy here!”

He smiled. She missed me, he thought. Or, at least she misses something I do for her. That still counts for something, right? He shrugged to himself. It didn't really matter. He knew he'd write something for her. The scope and scale merely determined by his willpower and inspiration of the moment. He hit reply and started typing.

(Originally written on 2007-11-28)