It sits there, nagging, taunting. I know it needs attention but I'm busy and this isn't the time. I'm writing now, go away. The work flows, the ideas come in orderly fashion, the hands flex correctly and enter the words the brain dictates. I'm seated at the table, facing the wall and working by the light from the window. I don't move, not for a drink, not to go to the bathroom. I won't do anything to interrupt the flow.

But still it inserts itself. I can't escape it, even though I've turned my back to it. The thoughts become a little less measured, the fingers unruly. If I were to look in a mirror, it would be behind me, mocking, trying to distract me, making itself known. Its presence is palpable now, and at any moment, I almost expect it to tap me on the shoulder.

Its influence grows, the distraction undeniable and insistent, until the flow is choked off and I'm dry again. I get up, go to the bathroom, then the kitchen for some water. I look outside from the window over the sink. It's no use. I return to the bedroom and realize I have to face it. I'll make the damned bed.

Props to the CHPercolator List for the prompt
February 26, 2001
210 words