why not me?

A half eaten bag of shelled peanuts sits on the table, along with three empty bottles of beer.

She looks down at them, and wonders what possessed him to eat and drink last night. Then disappear. She’d only asked him why he felt the need to write about girls from his past so much and not about her.

“They all ended,” he said. “You and me, we haven’t.”

His pause at the end let her know that he wanted to say “yet”. He chose not to, and then got out of bed, walking straight to the fridge and popping open a bottle of Shiner Bock. Despite it being only 58 degrees inside the house, she knew he couldn’t afford to turn on the heat much higher than that. The perils of living in an old house with high ceilings and big, drafty windows. She sighed and went to sleep, knowing full well that he was sitting in front of his old typewriter now, staring at the keys hoping something would come out.

She heard the keys punching on paper just before she fell asleep. That made her smile. He’d be in a good mood in the morning at least.

Instead, he wasn’t there when she got out of bed and put on her robe. She had expected him to be in bed, snoring the way he does after drinking a few too many beers. “He must be on the couch,” she thought. But a quick glance in his office showed the couch to be empty as well. On his desk was a ragged pile of typed sheets. They were some kind of screenplay, she could tell by the way they were typed with the centered parts and lots of dialogue.

He hadn’t tried to write a screenplay in years. But here, it appeared, was a completely finished one. One night’s work. About 100 pages worth. Something must have really inspired him. She had to know what it was.

The title simply was “Why not me?”

She dared not ready anymore of it. It had to be about they’re one and only constant fight. Her need, her desire for him to write about her. As far as she knew, he never did. He shared most of his writings with her, when they were done. Very rarely when they were WIPs. It took her three months to figure out that he wasn’t saying whips, but instead Works In Progress. He laughed when she told him that. She felt stupid. But never told him that.

“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t write about me?” she thought. “I don’t tell him my fears. My insecurities. At least about us. Yes, I’ll tell him about my uncle’s advances or my boss’s lies. But when it comes to me and him, I don’t.”

He, on the other hand, was an open book. His stories of past loves that he did not let inside his mind, his passions, his inner-most thoughts filled up the first few weeks of their relationship. He was a failure, by his own admission. Never going after what he knew he should have and could have. She felt sorry for him, and listened to his stories. They drank lots of wine, even though he loathed the taste of wine. But she inherited her father’s collection of wines and his ability to find great wines out of the 1,000s of bottles that even a grocery store had.

He’d told her one night, weeks into their relationship, that wine made him impotent as a writer. That the drunk it provided just made him want to lay about and be with her. She loved that line, and told him so. That sparked something. Her saying that. He wrote it down. And then wrote a story based on that one line. It was the first story he’d finished in years, he told her. The line was the beginning and sort of the end. It was a story of a woman, a man and a six-week long love affair. That was exactly how long he and her had been together when the book was finished. She read it. And was devastated. It was the best thing she’d read in a long time. But it wasn’t about her. It was dedicated to her, but the woman in the story was not the tall, pale, redhead that she was. Instead, it was about a short, black haired, barfly.

She cried after reading it. He asked why. She didn’t tell him why, only that it was a beautiful story.

The next day he sent it out to publishers. Something he’d never done before. Weeks went by, he kept writing at a prolific pace. Churning out story after story on women, men and the lives they wanted and the ones they ended up with. He even got halfway through a novel -- 222 pages worth -- when he received a phone call. An editor had picked up his submission from the pile of submissions on his boss’s desk. It was the pink paper it was typed on that got my attention, he’d tell her the editor said. I read it and knew this was worthy of publishing.

Months later, the book was on the shelves. His editor had arranged to get it in the hands of a couple of important people. It was reviewed in the New York Times. The Washington Post. And most importantly of all, on a small show on the Oprah Network.

From there it sold copies like crazy. Soon, it was optioned to be a movie. He had done what he always wanted to do, be published. The success was an added bonus. If he’d stayed anonymous to most of the world, he would have been fine. Just to see his book on a shelf in a store was enough.

Everything seemed great for him. He wrote more stories. They were published in magazines and in book form. They enjoyed great evenings together, listening to his LP collection and drinking -- her wine, him Shiner. One night, she’d had a few bottles and was quite drunk. They were dancing to Dean Martin’s “Houston”, a song that for whatever reason, made him quite happy. She looked in his eyes and asked “Why not me?”

He looked at her, puzzled by the question. “What do you mean, honey?” he asked with a smile.

“Just that,” she said, stopping the dance. “You’re stories are never about me. Only the woman that you used to talk to me about so much. They inspire you. Why not me?”

He hung his head low and sat down in his favorite patio chair. The one he’d written a poem in one night, about her. And gave to her for their anniversary. One of only two poems he’d ever written that he liked. He didn’t bring this up. He knew what she was asking was true, but only in a superficial way.

“All my writing is inspired by you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if not for you.”

She looked at him. An icy stare. Then walked away.

He stopped writing after that night. They stopped laughing. Until she asked again, weeks later.

And he wrote all night. And now he was gone.