305 Words on Floating Away:

She taps the wooden spoon on the metal bowl | Nonfiction

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She taps the wooden spoon on the metal bowl.

“What did I just say?”

You look up.

Your throat gets tense.

Butterflies fill your stomach.

“Um…” You look down at your socks. “I don’t know,” is all you can think of.

She sighs, shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

Your chest gets tight.

The air heavies.

“It’s not fine,” you say. You take a breathe. “I’m sorry.”

She looks down, forces a smile.

The spoon goes back in the bowl.

She stirs a little harder.

You start to think about your obsession with writing.

Your obsession with coming up with ideas, telling stories, and making sense of the world around you.

You wake up early for writing.

You stay up late for writing.

And sometimes, you hate writing.

You hate when you’re in the middle of a conversation, listening to a story, or finding a solution to a problem your girlfriend is struggling with, when suddenly, out of nowhere, you begin to float away.

A word you chose.

A line you wrote.

An essay you couldn’t finish.

Your writing pulls you out of the moment, like an invisible string, and takes you somewhere very far away.

You can’t come back.

Not until…

“Jake!?”

“What?”

Your heart jumps.

You look up.

You look at her face, and try to read it.

Should you smile? Laugh? You don’t know.

“Why are you smiling?” she says. “I just told you something sad.”

“Oh.”

You clear your throat.

Your face is getting hot.

You swallow, ask her to repeat herself.

“Don’t worry,” she says.

You take a breath, say you’re sorry.

“Don’t worry,” she says.

“It won’t happen again,” you say.

“Don’t worry.” She puts the tray in the oven.

But you are worried, you think.

Because it will happen again.

Floating away always happens again.