Frustration.

The blinking cursor mocks him. It knows his fears; his worries. He types a few tentative words only to backspace in quick, anxious wrist snaps.

It continues to mock him.

There’s always dishes to do. Perhaps a load of laundry.

The cursor laughs.

“I’ll just get something to drink.” he tells himself as he stands from the desk.

The chortle from the screen causes the blood to rise to his face. He sits back down, empty glass still before him and pounds the keyboard with abandon. Words flow from him like clear water on a hot summer day.

Happily he reads what he had wrote.

The cursor snickers and the words disappear once more.

At least there are some dirty dishes waiting.