The first writer I ever slept with stole my watch off the nightstand.
The second writer looked awful.
“Do you write full-time?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “But that’s my dream.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh,” I said.
After the fifth drink, it didn’t matter.
Harry was a great guy. We hooked up a few times. We always chatted, after.
“I’m just about finished with my book,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Ten years of my life. Ten fucking years.”
“Yeah? What’s it about?”
He told me.
“That’s a book already,” I said. “That exact thing.”
“Is it?” he said, sitting up.
I told him I was pretty sure.
I ran to the bathroom. I brought back a paperback. Harry skimmed the back cover.
“Shit,” he said.
He lay back down. He put out his cigarette.
“Wanna go again?” he said.
“You’ll have to pay again,” I said.
“Shit,” he said.
The only poet I can remember was the one—I’m guessing he was a virgin. He paid me for anal.
“That’s my vagina,” I said in the dark.
“Okay,” he said.
Another writer I remember clearly was the guy who drank maybe fifty cups of coffee a day. He complained constantly about his depression.
“How can you be depressed?” I said. Thinking about all that coffee.
“I just am,” he said.
“You don’t seem depressed.”
“I guess I hide it well,” he said.
Then he threw his head back and laughed.
I still can’t get the stains out of the sheets. The coffee stains.
The baby’s due in May. Fyodor, if it’s a boy. If it’s a girl, Virginia. The father’s a prize-winning Irish playwright. That’s what I’m going to tell people.
It might even be true.
Rolli is a writer, illustrator and cartoonist hailing from Canada. His cartoons appear regularly in Reader’s Digest, Harvard Business Review, Barron's, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Adbusters, The Oldie and other popular outlets.