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Matthew Allard is an author, freelance writer, and Internet geek. Some of his stories were inspired by illustrations from Ian Dingman and made into a book called To Slow Down The Time.

This is his blog.

Shut In/Out

Martin ran a hot bath in the old tub. The pipes groaned. As the basin filled, he stood in the gathering water. For the first time in a long time he thought of calling Penny. Penny with her wild blonde hair. Penny with the booming stadium laugh. Penny who held doors for men and stayed up late fiddling with a collection of plastic toy cameras, pointing them at Orion and the moon, hoping for a surprise. Where was she now? How long had it been since they’d spoken? Penny, Penny. Martin let the name inhabit his mouth like a puff of smoke. He recalled her smiling, enough teeth for the both of them. He recalled her frown. That, he imagined as it crept along the air, from cellphone tower to cellphone tower, from her receiver to his ear.

“I’m going to be very busy,” Martin had said.

He cupboarded a tin of biscuits.

“Martin Pram ever not busy? I wouldn’t believe it,” Penny had replied.

“Pen.”

“I get it, Martin. I get it. We talked about it before you left. You need a moment. This is your moment.”

“Well it’s not quite like that. It’s just that I can’t walk away from this opportunity without making the absolute best of it.”

Penny was sitting upright on her bed, her knees tucked up to her chest. She played with the hem of her pajama bottoms. Her mobile was hot against her ear. Martin wasn’t sure if he heard her sigh or if it was just static on the line, some digital dust mite.

“I used to be your muse,” she said.

“Oh, come on. You are my muse. You are my muse.”

“I feel more like a fly.”

“I’m being a stingy bastard, Penny. I know. I am sorry.”

Martin put a kettle on the small stovetop. When he turned the knob the gas burner didn’t light. There was an empty clicking.

“Shit,” he swore.

“What?”

“I think the pilot light is out. I hate to light them. You always feel like you might take your face off in the process.”

Penny made a small noise, a slight humming of closed lips.

“I smell gas. Look, Pen, I’ve got to let you go. If I succeed, if I don’t blow this whole place down, I will call you in a few days. Maybe. I mean, let me see what kind of progress I’m making on the book, okay?”

Penny unfurled, laying back on the bed. “Okay, Martin. Best of luck, Martin.”

He knew that she was irritated. She had every right to be.

“Love you,” he said and clicked off without waiting for her reply.

Martin hadn’t meant for the conversation to be a relationship-ender. He had wished he could just press pause on the whole thing, like a video game or TV program. He wished he could jab a button and have his whole life waiting for him, just the same, in the spring. He’d pick right back up with Penny in April, a completed manuscript slung beneath his arm. As much as he’d fantasized that, he knew it wasn’t a reality. Though the words hadn’t been said, Martin Pram knew that Penny McCallister wouldn’t be waiting in a flowery sundress when he returned home from his fellowship. Her life would continue on without him. Because he wouldn’t call her in a few days time. He wouldn’t call her again, weeks shifting into months. He had sacrificed her.

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    brilliant writing over here :)
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  7. This was featured in #Prose
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