Jose sat down to write a short story…
He couldn’t think of anything.
He went outside.
Jose saw Olivia, who wore an olive green parka and Eskimo sombrero.
“Hi, Olivia, what should I write about?” said Jose. “I’m writing a short story. But I don’t know on what.”
“So then you’re not writing a short story,” Olivia said, “you’re just wanting to write a short story.”
“You know, Olivia, I’ve never known you for your semantics.”
“I’m a new me, sweety.”
“Yes you are. You never called me sweety before.”
Olivia set down the shovel as Jose flipped the garbage can’s lid up and deposited a bag of crumpled toilet paper smeared with shit.
“Write about a kite in mid-august,” said Olivia as she dusted snow off her attire, “Or a plane crash in outerspace. Write about the plight of toothpaste. Or the ratio of hip to waist.”
“The plight of toothpaste? Tell me more about it,” implored Jose, who was now shivering and had to keep his teeth from chattering.
“Well, toothpaste is going extinct. People keep going into stores and poaching them. They squeal in their little rectangular boxes as they get carted away. It’s really quite sad.”
“God”, said Jose, “I never knew of that plight. Why write about a kite when I can write about that….Thanks Olivia. Oh and nice hat,” he added as he darted back inside.
“You’re welcome,” howled Olivia…waving to Jose who was already turned away from her enthusiastic gloves, purple.
“Isn’t he the best?” Olivia asked the wind.