Prompt: Write about an author with writer's block.
Source: NatSplatt thanks RACK!! on writing.com
His pencil tapped the tabletop - a nervous, staccato rhythm. If I had been turned toward him I would have seen him biting his lip while he tapped, a sure sign that he was stuck. As it was, I did not need to look at him to know he had writer's block. The tapping had been going on unbroken by the sound of a pencil skating across paper for nearly half an hour.
I glanced at the clock, but I already knew what time it was - nearly midnight. I want to go to bed, I was exhausted, but I did not want to go alone.
I looked over at Blake. He was biting his lip. His deadline was in two days. I knew I should let him work even if working simply meant pencil tapping and lip biting, but I really did not want to. Besides, Blake got exponentially less productive once ten o'clock had passed.
I stood and walked into the kitchen. His things were strewn across the table, his chair was slid in so tightly that his ribcage appeared perched on the wood. I stood behind him. There were a few words scribbled on his yellow legal pad, but I knew better than to read them. I only read the finished project. I kissed Blake's cheek, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. The pencil stopped tapping.
"Come to bed," I requested.
His hand came up to rest on my arm. We were silent for a moment while he contemplated the mess before him. He sighed. "I'll be in in a few minutes."
I released him after another quick kiss. I knew I would fall asleep alone.