The Writer by Kim Dallmeier Page B

by.

Chapter 4
    It was 9 o’clock when I
looked at my watch. We were making our way slowly to her place. The
night was young. The street held more trees than cars, a privilege
rarely seen in the middle of town.
    From the outside, the
house did not look like much: reddish brown bricks piled on top of
each other, framed by some strayed frozen branches of a dying
tree.
    She climbed the steps
first to unlock the door. As it opened, a familiar warm sweet scent
escaped through the crack; one which would become a smell I would
come to associate to Home.
    The first thing I noticed
when making my way through her house were the tall cathedral-like
ceilings made out of golden wood, and the rich red bricks that
composed the walls.
    The front windows, which I
found to be quite ordinary late at night, became stained glass
masterpieces stretched to the ceiling the next morning. They were
simply extraordinary.
    How does an Art student
afford such a luxurious place?
    Next to the hallway, on
the left, was a lounge with leather sofas. She had shelves on each
side of a fireplace, which extended to the ceiling, filled with
books, a mixture of odd art pieces and new age gizmos. Incense was
the smell I had recognized from the entrance hall:
Jasmine.
    I walked slowly along the
hallway that stretched through the entire house. Peering now to the
right, I found her bedroom, which I dared not enter, and a small
bathroom. At the end of the hallway was her kitchen and to the left
a small studio, within which she painted and sacrificed random
pieces of wood in the name of “Art.”
    I walked to the backdoor,
peering at a small balcony where an exhibit of dead plants was
exposed, one of which decorated with Christmas ornaments. Her
second-floor apartment towered over various neighbours that seemed
to all share quite conveniently her backyard.
    “Are you living in a
commune?” I asked.
    “Huh?” Joy
replied.
    “Well, there seems to be a
huge collection of tables and chairs in your backyard…”
    She laughed. “Yeah, that’s
our communal terrace. We all share it. All the flats you can see
use it. Therefore, a while back, everyone started bringing down
whatever chair and table each could find, just so that everyone can
use it together whenever we want to… It’s actually quite
neat.”
    I smiled back.
    “So, tell me again what
you do?”
    I did not actually
remember telling much of anything about me. I nodded.
    “I’m a writer…” I started,
“Well, no. I’m not a writer yet. I just mean I enjoy writing and I
study literature. I’d like to be a writer someday.”
    “You’re either a Writer or
you’re not.” she said.
    “What do you mean by
that?”
    “Do you need to write
every day? Do you think about what you’re going to write next? Does
it consume you?” She was waving her arms around now, barely
containing herself. She started getting up, as though she needed
more space to explain what she was trying to get across.
    “If you always have a pen
and paper with you, if you’re always thinking about that next thing
you’re going to write, if you have a bunch of papers or files
filled with ideas, if you absorb experiences collecting them like
butterflies for your next poem or book, then…you’re a Writer. So,
are you?”
    She looked at me
wide-eyed, expectant. A writer or not, I could not imagine wanting
to let her down. I sat there, coffee in hand, staring at her
blushing cheeks, her ruby red lips.
    “I guess,” was my
deep-thought answer.
    “Great!” she exclaimed,
raising her hands over her head. “That’s great! Can I read some of
your stuff?” She smiled.
    I started sweating. My
stomach clenched, my hands started getting moist. I did not
actually write for anyone to read. Did that make sense? All I could
do was write in my journal... I do not believe I had ever written
any essay, outside of University classes anyway.
    “I don’t have anything on
me…” I replied.
    “Oh…” She looked at me
suspiciously for a few