Last the Year

He was in a car in a parking lot somwhere trying to write in a book. The book was a gift for his grandma and he wanted to get this done before he opened the door and entered the cold.

He knew that what to say would come to him. But as he wrote the inside cover of the paperback was glossy and awkward: his pen moved smoothly but in a slippery fashion, failing to write most of the letters he wanted.

Suddenly he was extremely uncomfortable. He itched horrendously. He had to get out of the car- he hated the way that pen slid.

So he told himself that he would pay for his sloppiness later- better to make it through this moment and leave the difficulties to his future self.