In Coventry

I’m getting the cold shoulder, again.

I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I get that vibe. I’m in the dog house.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’ve done exactly, but please, forgive me.”


Not a word.

“Come on, say something at least. Shout at me, curse me out, whatever. You’re going to have to say something eventually.”

By this time I’d have been happy with an eye roll or a sigh, anything to let me know I wasn’t talking to myself.

My writer’s block looked at me, disdainfully, and refused to utter a single word.

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