Prose Poem: Dialogue

She came back from the kitchen
Carrying two glasses with ice cubes in them.
She held the glasses while he poured the Scotch.
They settled on the couch
And lit cigarettes.

She thought he seemed content
Smoking and
Sipping the Scotch.

She studied him a moment,
And then she said,
"Do you think you're ready to write now?"

"Probably not, but I'm writing anyway.
I had to start some time,"
He said.
“I’ve avoided it long enough.”

“What will you write?”
She asked.
She turned to face him on the couch
And drew her legs up under her,
Sitting on them.

“A novel.”

He sipped the Scotch
And leaned back.
Staring at the ceiling,
Following a thin crack that snaked across the plaster,
He said,
“First a novel started.
Short stories at the same time,
While developing the novel.”

“What ideas do you have for your novel?”
She asked.

He smiled
When she referred to his novel.
It added another dimension when
Someone else said it.
When she said it,
It almost seemed possible.

He looked at her.

“I have the ideas
I’ve been carrying
In my head for years.
Ideas I’ve been trying to express
For so long.
My ideas about life.
People I’ve known.
How I’ve known them.
All the things I have to say.”

“I like your ideas,”
She said.
"They’re good.”

She looked down into her glass.

She was holding the glass
In both hands between her legs.

"I think you’ll write good things,”
She said,
And she looked up at him as she said it,
Smiling.

“I hope so,”
He said.

“I need more ice,”
She said,
And got up and went into the kitchen.

Encouragement,
He thought.

Meanwhile,
She brought the food to feed him
And the Scotch to make him drunk.

She even brought the ice.

He listened to the sounds she made in the kitchen,
Getting the ice.