Adam Oster, Novelist

The not-so-young author sat alone in the dark motel room with a small glass of whiskey in his hand. He stared at the computer screen, wondering whether he had it in him to put to the page what he knew he needed to put there. If there was one thing this plucky novelist could do, it was to put things where they didn’t belong.

There was a knock at the door. He sat upright. No one should know he was here. He had made it absolutely clear at the front desk even that he should be left absolutely alone. He peered through the peephole, finding a young blonde standing outside, looking impatient.

Slowly, he opened the door, wearing nothing but a stained t-shirt and sweatpants, still holding his glass, breath reeking of alcohol, three days growth on his chin, knowing he looked as though he had gone through a rough one already, and it was only ten in the morning.

The woman was startled at the sudden appearance of this man, and looked around, presumably to remind herself of where the exits were.

“Yeah?” the writer grunted, eyes bleary as he tried to focus on the person who had broken his reverie.

“Um, hi, um, I think I might have the wrong room. Sorry.” She walked away, along the walkway to the second floor balcony of the motel.

The author thought for a moment to chase after her, to find someone to break the loneliness. He was stopped when she was greeted at the next door down by some tall dark and handsome fellow who opened the door and embraced her in a big hug.

He closed the door once again, sitting down in the salmon colored armchair to find some way to bring the muses back to him.

As he sat there, he thought about how he once had a life, how he had a wife and kids and all the perfect trappings of a perfect life. But now he was here, alone. In COVID-town.