Ink and Rough Paper

Took the night bus back across the bridge and shut the door on the cold street. Dropped down cross-legged on the floorboards by the low radiator with that marbled notebook from the river stalls. Quisp trotted over right away, his little white paws settling over the hem of my jeans before curling his chin down on my shin. I uncapped my black ballpoint with my left hand and rested the metal nib against the rough, unlined page. Pennyroyal tea, or just putting down a few honest lines for Bloom before the night gets completely dark. The paper drank the ink slow, scratching quiet in the room while Quisp’s motor purred against my ankle.