for June

1. No More Words

Three months ago, he lost his ability to write. Not like he lost an arm, or suffered a stroke, or became forgetful despite his youth. No. Chad Gilligan was fine, as fine as anyone his age could be who lived on coffee and no sleep. It was his damn heart.

Three months ago, Chad was dumped—cast aside like a used condom. Not something he wanted to admit out loud, but it had messed him. Messed him enough that whenever he sat down to write, he wanted to hurl abuses at the woman responsible for the hurt.

A feeling he was not used to.

What he was used to was sitting in that café on Elizabeth Street, across Hyde Park; at that table near the giant window and watch people. He was also used to writing about them as a character in his book. The cafe was rich in gold, and he was a miner. What he was not used to, was sitting there twiddling his thumbs, lost and sour. And he definitely wasn't used to feeling nausea every time he thought about writing another romance.

He no longer had the heart or stomach for it. He could cry—if he hadn't been sitting in the cafe.

Usually, people coming in from the street captured his attention. Their looks, their swagger, the way they smiled, the tone of their voice, or their attitudes; details he could use in a story. And today, he hoped to find something he could use. Something. Anything. He wasn't picky. He just needed something to inspire a story.

He refrained from yelling, 'Send me a sign!'  at the sky. After weeks of praying and no returns, Chad didn't hold his breath.

When the front door opened for the first time that morning, his head snapped up—ready for action, ready for gold.

Here we go.

As a gaggle of office workers scurried in, rubbing stiff hands together, or pulling their scarves higher, busy with their chatter, a gust of wind slipped in behind them. It sent a napkin swirling off his table, and a chill snaking around his skinny ankles.

Chad groaned with severe displeasure. He hadn't been able to find fresh socks this morning. He wore his loafers sockless, and his toes ached with the cold. He didn't need idiots letting in gusts of icy wind that made him wish he'd done a load of washing. He needed to get his act together. He only had two clean underwear left in his drawer.

The last one to enter, a woman, gave him a nervous smile when she caught him staring daggers.

He turned away with a faint smile and picked the napkin from the floor. He wasn't in the mood to smile at a female today, lest she thinks he's flirting, or worse, interested—he was not interested in anyone. And there in lay the problem for a writer who needed a muse but hadn't the heart to find her—or him.

He ran a hand over the mouse-pad, bringing his laptop back to life. He reached for the coffee mug with the other. To his dismay, he stared at a blank page and the bottom of an empty mug.

He sneered at the cursor on the screen. 'What are we going to write, Chad?' it questioned him. He shut the laptop with a sluggish hand and a heavy heart. He had been staring at the blank screen for days and weeks. His mind was blank as the gleaming page.

For eight years—without fail—Chad had come to the café, placed his order, and sat at that table to write. Nine bestsellers and poof—words vanished like a magician's assistant in a puff of smoke. There one moment and gone the next—like his girlfriend. The thought of Setal sent him whimpering in his corner.

But what worried him more was that he struggled with words. His oldest, constant companions—gone. It made him uneasy. What if they never came back?

'What's the story, Chad?' His wretched laptop prodded him as he eyed the thing.