"I'd like to write Trapezoidally," said Mac. He was talking to his editor. She was also his wife.

"What does that mean exactly; " said Stacy, "What does it entail?"

"You know how trapezoids are always left sided and your brain has that light and right side thing going? It's like that. The trapezoid was introduced by Mayans, which were the first known civilization to pay writers for stories, "said Mac.

"Ok, I didn't know that," said Stacy.

They were sitting in her leathery office, which used to be the dining room. Mac was in his rust colored bath robe, even though Stacy preferred him to dress as if he did not live in the next room and surrounding house.

"Yes. That is what I am saying. Traps go back to early stuff like mammoths and ants or whatever. And that's when writing started too. Back with mammoths and ants or whatever," said Mac.

"Did you pay the electric bill?" said Stacy.

"Yes and I did do that, "said Mac.

Stacy got up from behind her desk and walked to the window. The front lawn was covered in leaves. Underneath them somewhere was a rake and black garbage bag. She closed the blinds and looked at Mac. She could see his cock and it depressed her.

"Ok, explain this again, " said Stacy, sitting back in her chair.

"I need to go back. To bring it home. If I write side stratally, you know, with real groove numbers and, like, prehistory, I think I can make some real money," said Mac.

Stacy rested her head on her hand and looked at Mac as if it were the last time.

"I think we can make some real money. Do you understand? With my writing," said Mac.

"No," said Stacy.

Stacy leaned back. She stared through Mac and thought about their life together. Her marriage to Mac's brother, their affair, her divorce, their marriage, his writing throughout it all. She never understood his writing. It was such gibberish that people thought he was original. Some kind of savant. He made enough money for her to quit her job and take up her present one.

Stacy told him to go upstairs and put on some clothes. That she did not understand anything he was saying, that she never would and that he should probably shut up. She was trying to get a response out of him, something human.

Instead he said: "This is soothe, this is real soothe. This is writing for me. I think we can make this work on the page too. Let's just quit," he got up, "let's just stop the soothe style and make this work," he was talking to himself, walking up the stairs, "I need to get this down and around the page. The soothe."

Stacy picked up her phone.

"I can't do it baby, " said Stacy, "I can't fake this. I can't do any of it. Mac. He was talking some bullshit about mammoths. Yeah. I don't know. Well, I can just be his editor. I can't fake it. I just. I know. I can't right now. I don't think I want to come over. I just feel like staring. Staring. It means I can't come over. Thank you. Soon. Yes."

Stacy laughed, said I love you too and hung up the phone. She got up and paced the room. She opened the blinds and then closed them. She looked at the pictures on her bookshelves. Pictures of Mac and her in various foreign countries. She walked up the stairs, being as quiet as she could without actually caring about how quiet she was being. She saw that Mac was hitting his punching bag. He would hit the bag about ten times, bouncing up and down the whole time and then sit down at his type writer. She thought about the pretentiousness of the typewriter and how he was nothing like a typewriter. That he was living and breathing art. She smiled as she looked fondly at Mac, walked down the steps and out the door.  ¶ 4:41 PM