by Abigail Iliffe

Created on: June 07, 2008

IN THE EVENING
he would sit at his desk and write
Never about anything wonderful, nothing extraordinary.
In fact, as anyone that really knew Cal would tell you,
his tales were never really anything,
but ever-so-slightly exaggerated versions of his own life,
and he liked it that way.
He felt more at home there; more in control,
within the boundaries that he created for himself;
in the company of his characters,
each one possessing some version of an interest or opinion
not dissimilar to his own.
Between the words before him on the screen,
he sensed a mutual understanding.
She couldn't take this from him;
he owned this.
She couldn't bundle this into bin-liners,
or cut it into pieces to hurl across the living room carpet;
this truly belonged to him

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