Where We Live and Die by Brian Keene Page A

outside his window; by the words of other writers that line his bookshelves and the conversations of his neighbors half-heard through the thin walls of his apartment.
    But mostly, Roy is distracted by the loud silence in his head.
    He doesn’t know where the silence comes from, but he wishes it would go away and be replaced with something else. An idea. A line of dialogue that sounds real. A clever turn of phrase. Anything. He used to write novels that made readers feel things. Now, it’s all just empty words. He doesn’t feel anything, so how can he make his readers feel anything in return.
    Roy saw a therapist twice—which was the maximum amount of visits he could afford. The therapist told him he was suffering from chronic depression, but Roy disagrees with this diagnosis. If he had depression, he’d feel depressed. That’s the problem. Roy doesn’t feel anything. He is only…numb.
    He is trying not to think about this and focus instead on his Kindle, and doesn’t realize the waitress is standing beside him until she clears her throat.
    “Sorry,” Roy apologizes.
    “It’s okay.” The waitress smiles.
    Roy is immediately struck by her beauty. She has one of those faces and bodies that appear perpetually young. She could be in her twenties or thirties. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and dark complexion. Her accent is exotic but hard to place. Eastern Europe, perhaps? He can’t be sure. The only thing he is certain of is that she is new. Roy eats here every week, and he has never seen her before. She wears the same uniform as the rest of the wait-staff—green shirt and black slacks—but even those look new. He notices she has no nametag clipped to her shirt.
    She nods at the Kindle. “Are you reading one of yours or someone else’s?”
    “Oh…someone else’s. I’m guessing one of your co-workers told you I was a writer?”
    She shakes her head.
    Roy is surprised. “You’ve read my stuff?”
    “I’ve read everything you’ve written. Or, at least, I used to. Although it’s been a while. You’re not working on anything new.”
    Roy notices that she phrases this as an assumption, rather than a question. It leaves him feeling flustered and a little defensive.
    “Oh, I am. It’s just…going slow. Writer’s block.”
    “I thought there was no such thing.”
    “Whomever told you that was a liar.”
    “Aren’t all writers liars? Especially fiction writers?”
    “No.” Roy clears his throat, his exasperation growing stronger.
    The waitress laughs, and Roy swears there is a melody in that sound.
    “Relax, Roy. I’m just teasing. Of course writers aren’t liars. Especially fiction writers. They tell the truths nobody wants to hear. The truths everyone feels inside, but don’t have the courage or ability to voice out loud.”
    “That’s very astute. I take it you want to be a writer, as well?”
    “No. I love art—writing, music, painting—art in all its forms. But I’m happy just to inspire.”
    Now Roy smiles. “You would have made a fine muse back in the day. You would have fit right in with Calliope, Clio, Erato, and the other six.”
    “Seven,” the waitress corrects him.
    Roy frowns. “I thought there were nine muses?”
    “There were. But then Plato named Sappho the tenth muse.”
    “Huh.” Roy shrugs. “Learn something new every day.”
    “Benefits of a classical education.”
    “What college did you go to?”
    She shrugs. “Several different ones.”
    Roy wonders if that means she dropped out or if she pursued different degrees. Before he can ask, the waitress glances back at the kitchen, and then down at Roy. She puts her pen to pad and begins to write.
    “Porterhouse, rare, with garlic mashed potatoes on the side and an unsweetened iced tea, no lemon?”
    Roy is genuinely surprised. “Wow. How did you…how did you know that?”
    The reflection of fluorescent lights overhead flicker in her eyes. “It’s what you always order. I’ll be right back with some