Ten Minutes

The cursor blinks at me. I've been staring at it for who knows how long.

I'm at the dining table right now, laptop open, cup of tea going cold next to me. Something's playing on the TV in the living room, I couldn't tell you what. It's just noise. The good kind.

My husband's on the sofa with his coffee, doing his own work thing. We're together but separate, you know? It's nice.

Except I can't write.

The prompt sits at the top of my screen: Write a story that includes the words "Shh," "This section is off-limits," or "We're closing in ten minutes."

I type: Maya walked into the museum,

Delete.

Too boring. Everyone writes the museum story.

I try again: The library was dark and,

Delete.

Ugh.

"Hey, did you see this?" My husband's holding up his phone.

"Hmm?"

"This meme. It's, never mind, you're working."

"No, what is it?"

He shows me. It's funny. We both laugh. He goes back to his laptop. I go back to my blinking cursor, which has now been blinking for probably an hour.

I migrate to the couch. Sometimes a change of location helps. It doesn't help.

"Shh, I'm getting a call," my husband says suddenly, standing up.

I freeze. I wasn't even making noise.

He walks to the other room, phone pressed to his ear, and I hear him say, "Sorry, say that again?"

I look down at my laptop.

Shh.

Wait.

I open my notes and type it: Shh.

One down. Okay. That's something. Even if it feels like cheating because he actually said it.

I check Instagram. Someone posted a photo of their vacation. Nice. I like it. I scroll a little more. Someone's cat knocked over a plant. Relatable.

Back to the document. Still blank.

I should really do the dishes. There's laundry in the dryer. Did I respond to that email? When's that thing due again?

No. Focus. Write.

What if I wrote about someone trying to write a story and the universe keeps giving them the exact words they need but they still can't figure out what to do with them?

That's so self-indulgent though. That's what people do when they have nothing to say.

But also... it kind of just happened to me.

My husband comes back from his call, sits down on the sofa, picks up his coffee. Takes a sip and makes a face. "This is cold."

"Mine too."

His phone buzzes. He glances at it.

"Work just sent out a message. Winter storm's coming, so we're all working from home tomorrow."

"Oh, that's good," I say, only half paying attention.

He shows me the notification on his screen. There's a whole paragraph about safety protocols, but one line catches my eye: "The office will be closed. This section is off-limits until weather conditions improve."

I read it twice.

You're kidding.

I look around the room like someone's playing a prank on me. But it's just our regular living room. TV still on. My husband back to scrolling. My cold tea still sitting on the dining table where I left it.

I add to my notes: This section is off-limits.

Two down.

Okay. This is weird.

I just sit there. Two phrases, handed to me by accident. But I still don't have a story. What am I supposed to write about? A museum? A library? Someone sneaking around?

My brain is blank.

I look at my notes again. Shh. This section is off-limits. Two random moments from the last hour. Not a plot. Not characters. Just... life, interrupted.

"You good?"

"Yeah. Just stuck."

"On the story?"

"Yeah."

He nods. "You'll figure it out."

I don't feel like I'll figure it out.

The TV show ends. Another one starts. I should get up and reheat my tea but I don't want to move. I'm in that weird limbo where I'm not writing but I'm also not not writing. Just existing in the space between.

Finally, I force myself up. I grab my cup, reheat the tea in the microwave, and settle back at the dining table with my laptop. The cursor is still there, still blinking. Still waiting.

I lose track of time for a bit. Just me and the screen and the sound of the TV in the background.

My phone buzzes. My husband this time: "We need to leave in ten minutes for that thing."

I look up. He's across the room, grinning at me.

"You texted me from the couch?"

"You weren't listening when I said it out loud."

"What thing?"

"The thing. We talked about this."

Oh no. What thing? I check my calendar. There it is. Dinner. We're supposed to leave at 7:30.

It's 7:20.

"We're leaving in ten minutes," I say out loud.

And then it hits me.

All three phrases. In the span of like an hour. Just... happened. While I was sitting here avoiding writing.

I start typing fast: The cursor blinks at me. I've been staring at it for who knows how long.

"Are you writing right now? We have to leave."

"I know, I know, just, give me one second."

I'm writing the story about trying to write the story. It's meta and probably bad but also it's real because it literally just happened. My husband said "shh," his work sent that notification about the office being off-limits, and now we're leaving in ten minutes.

"Seriously, we're going to be late."

"I'm almost done!"

"You're not almost done, you just started."

He's right. I'm not almost done. I'm barely started. But I save the document anyway and close my laptop.

I grab my tea, cold again. My husband's already getting his shoes on.

In my head, the story sits unfinished. Maybe I'll come back to it later. Maybe I won't. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Or maybe the whole point was that there was no point, just life happening while I tried to force something else to happen.

"Ready?" my husband asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's go."

We leave, and the cursor keeps blinking in the dark.