Joe sipped the now lukewarm coffee. He felt odd. He gazed at those pages as though he'd received them by mistake; like opening an envelope addressed to someone else? Things like this didn't happen to people like him; they were the stuff of creative minds - those stories he read sitting quietly in the library most afternoons.

What? He was supposed to up and leave his family - the family he loved - and just go? The thought was preposterous, it irritated him that she would assume it so easy. This dare of hers upset the equilibrium. Sure, he dreamed - he assumed everyone dreamed - but that was reserved for those moments before sleep, chasing sleep, his mind exhausted and haunted, his body seeking respite, however brief.

Oh she'd pestered him for months now. He'd ducked her pleas every time, claiming he had to go and do something, be some place... sending silly gifs - that meme most often: the Shakespearean character's rather silly face proclaiming "I don't know, it's a mystery," in answer to all her questions. Changing the subject; sending her on verbal chases... just so she would stop? Even when she had openly challenged him, he'd been harsh, too harsh really but his words had not thwarted her in the least. Mediterranean Cruises or the Scottish Highlands, some resort in Mexico, the propositions had kept coming at him via the screen they shared.

There was no rush damn it! What was the rush? Her impulsiveness he was used to, her quirkiness, sure, it was a fun thing to witness, and it brought smiles to his days. Her quick wit and those words of hers... words he at times desired the world to see - not just the few who'd gathered around her over the months - her words were magnificent things, worthy of any brilliant author he'd consumed.  And he cared about her, this woman from afar he spoke to daily and who knew him perhaps more intimately than some of those closest to him. But this? No!

He glanced at the papers again and gathered them up, stuffing them back inside the envelope, tearing one side in his haste to remove them from his view. Damn her! He hated her those moments. He hated her and he hated himself. He hated both of them with an intensity foreign to him.

He powered up the laptop and checked his email. Nothing. He tried Facebook. Usually he found her lurking there but his "Need to talk!" stared back at him unseen. Those three little dots dancing around when they typed their oft mutual silliness were not dancing. Damn her!

Giving up, he sat and did some writing; venting his anger on an update to his 'Escapades in LA' series... Now in his retirement, the stories were coming back - most of them still lingering; some of the images throbbing in the veins of his temples. It had been a hard job; the stunt work over several decades testing both body and mind, leaving behind the pains of remembering mental and physical 'breaks' and some other regrets...

The hours passed quickly. He needed them gone; he needed distance between his emotions and what lay ahead. Also distance from himself, the part of him craving her; the part he never spoke about yet which at times spilled from him unchecked, resulting in confessions he'd never dare utter elsewhere but within the screen.

'Watcha doing dad?' Jane hovered nearby again. She was his youngest and still in many ways his baby.

'Just some writing.'

'So that mysterious envelope earlier-'

'No mystery dear,' he was quick to cut her off. 'Only some advertising stuff.'

'Still sitting there though?' She reached out a hand for it. 'Want me to throw it out? And what's with the "dear" stuff?'

'No!' He snatched at the envelope and stuffed it into his satchel, realising he'd reacted to his daughter as his other self, using the one word exclusively reserved for Maria. Jane stared back, eyes wide.

'Sorry love, I have a few things on my mind and I need to finish this write... then we'll eat and watch the show?'

'Sure.' She wandered off, eyes already focused on the phone in her hand. He heard the front door open, and spied his wife removing her bag and hanging it on the hook. He stared back at the satchel as though it contained something horrible. He wanted to throw it in the trash, or burn it.