The words left my mouth without any inner editor reaching them first, and I clench my teeth to stop anything more escaping. He smirked, his smug exploitation of my off-hand statement palpable through the computer screen.

“What are you doing?” I inquire, slowly, with caution. I’m not sure I want to be inspiration anymore. He’s typing however, and has ignored my pleas with the carefree deftness of old friends. If our situations had been reversed, I know I couldn’t have resisted such an open invitation for mockery.

He knows something you don’t know

He’s still typing, smiling to himself, warding off my loud protestations with non-sentences, “It’s fine. You said I could. Don’t worry.” None of them make me any more assured.

My time is up as the sound of clacking stops. I refresh the page and click “Inspiration”

I only hope I don’t have to try and murder him next time we meet.