The short story sat on his kitchen table. It fit on a single piece of paper, which he had printed it on, having carefully chosen the perfect sans-serif font for the type...from those offered by his word processing software, anyway. He sipped his coffee and stared at the page, contemplating the shape of the words. He imagined someone else reading the words and he winced involuntarily.
Who was this person? Why had she appeared from under his fingers as they danced across the keyboard? She was, quite literally, a figment of his imagination. And yet within her few words, she held all his hopes and dreams. He wished she could emerge from the page and save him.
Suddenly, he picked up the paper and crumbled it. No one should ever read this. It is terrible writing. It's cliché and simplistic and basically one big trope. She, the real she, would hate it.
Today was just another day. Today was just another day in reality. He needed to put these fantasies behind him.
He took another sip of coffee and looked out the window. A squirrel was burying something in the yard. Maybe he should write about squirrels.
fin, fin, fin