As in:
Somewhere in that tiny zone of time between 1:47 and 1:49 a.m. the words stopped forming and coming together. And then he literally fell asleep, his forehead smacking the space bar with a plastic splash. The re-entry delusion was that all the words he’d put together that night were now unloosed and rolling across the floor of his office, as if a long string of rosary beads had come uncinched and were liberated, in single file.
So damn close to the ending, and now nothing, just screwed up words like “velcro,” and “martinize,” and “refinance,” and the useless “defenestration,” clanging around, like a demolition derby of words.
Then the little dog bounced down the stairs and trotted up to him, as if he had just received dog biscuits from UPS or something. She was small, with copper hair and needy eyes, looking rather like an overgrown foxbat, missing its wings.
“You want?” he asked.
The dog simply fell to the floor, then rolled lustily on her back, inviting him to rub her chest and stomach.
“You, you….
He looked sad, then shook his head. 1:52, the clock clicked.
“You’re such a tramp.”
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