Life imitates art imitates life

Ecks' fingers hovered over the keyboard; he hadn't written a word since she'd stormed out three nights ago.

As always, it had been a foolish argument over nothing, but still her eyes had glittered like they always did, morning sunlight reflected in ice. She'd wasted no time in hurling the usual clothes into the usual bag, and he was left hanging there in his dressing gown as the familiar sound of stillettos click-clacked to silence on the other side of a slammed door.

Ecks let his fingers drop. It was no use; he knew by now that it was pointless to try to write without her. He placed a piece of paper neatly on the desk in front of him, picked up a pen and started to compose a letter.

"Dear Muse," he began, "I'm sorry. Please come back."

A friend of Ecks and another friend of Ecks have both started blogs. Now, we all know how nice it is to receive comments, so why don't you pop over there and say hello?