Page 6 of Rhymes with Metaphor

T he departmental chair wasn’t mollified by “Little Moses.” Not one bit.

“You’ve written a page,” said the chair. “In a week.”

Properly speaking, Reg had written a poem in a day—the day he’d taken Joel in from the rain—and nothing since.

The chair was now threatening to make him meet with her every day for the next ten days until he produced ten more poems. Which wasn’t the least bit helpful to Reg, and after figuratively banging his head against the literal brick walls of his loft for the past week, Reg had booked a tiny attic room at M.

House, the studio building in town where artists went to get laid, stoned, and, not in that order, inspired.

Which was where Reg was now, eating some exceptionally stale crackers and attempting to pen a poem about setting a chair on fire.

This was where Martin ran him to ground.

“Has it ever occurred to you to switch on your phone?” said Martin. “I’ve been calling you for days.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man who’s been AWOL for most of April,” said Reg.

“I’ve been with Juliet. You don’t have my excuse.”

“Is this ticking-off in aid of anything?” said Reg.

“Have you got anything on for the next week?”

“The chair wants ten poems out of me in the next ten days.”

“How’s that going?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I’ve got a proposition,” said Martin. “Come with me to the cottage for a week.”

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘And?’? We each have a thesis to finish, and my cottage is the perfect place for writing, unlike this pokey little hole. Just think: Fresh air and peace and quiet. Tourist season doesn’t start for another three weeks. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Just us two?” said Reg.

Martin looked cagey. “I may have asked Juliet to come along.”

“For god’s sake.”

“She’s worked bloody hard all winter, Reg, and now she’s got a break until next semester starts. It would be nice if she could have a well-deserved rest. And, you know, she’s doing her PhD in clinical psychology. She may be able to help you with your writer’s block.”

“So, when I’m not being a third wheel, I’ll be a potential patient, will I?”

“Not at all .”

Reg looked at him sceptically.

“You won’t be a third wheel, because it won’t be just us three.

New Bug’s coming too. Turns out he wasn’t just exhausted.

He’s got mono. Juliet blames herself for not noticing he was sick, and she doesn’t want to leave him here alone.

So, I suggested we bring him to the cottage with us—she wouldn’t agree to come otherwise.

But that means he’ll be the third wheel, not you. ”

“Hmm,” said Reg, feeling unsympathetic.

“Which is why I want you to come with us...seeing as you and New Bug seem to have bonded.”

“I see,” said Reg. “You want me to come along as New Bug’s babysitter.”

“It won’t be hard, Reg. He spends most of the time asleep these days. You’ll hardly know he’s there. And you can have the master bedroom. And the boathouse has been kitted out as a writer’s room. You can work there. Juliet and I will be out most of the day, so you won’t be distracted.”

Reg clasped his hands behind his head. “There’s no internet, is there?”

“No,” said Martin.

“Then I’ll go.”

“Excellent!” said Martin. “I owe you one.”

Reg sent an email to the chair telling her he’d be on an internet-free writing retreat for the next week, which should stop her nipping at his heels for the time being.

“When do we leave?” said Reg.

“Tomorrow.”