Something I wrote for my brand-new semester elective, Advanced Writing. I think I'll leave it at that--knowing the prompt makes it not as fun, I think. Kinda ruins the (nonexistent) suspense. Anyways, comments + constructive criticism would be awesome!

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I am not a mess. I thought I should make this clear—maybe I'm a slob, or a dork, but I am not a mess. I am calm, I am logical, I am organized. My notebook was already open to a clean, empty page, my pen perfectly parallel beside it. I had set my hands, folded, deliberately in front of me. I wasn't going to fidget, not in front of her. Never mind the fact that my mind was buzzing, that I needed to get it out—this wasn't going to work unless I was firm.
I had been on time—I always am, if it's just me. She wasn't, of course. She never was, and frankly, it drove me crazy. The clock, slightly behind and to the side of me, ticked. It was a constant, steady noise—and I swear each movement of the second hand dragged on for an eternity. The air in the room was thick, soggy; even time had a hard time dragging itself onward. Tick. Where was she, anyways? It wasn't like she had anything better to do. Tick. If she didn't come soon, I was just going to leave. Tick. The absolute stillness in the room was going to drive me crazy; not a single thing moved, nothing crackled or whispered or hummed, except for that damn clock .Tick. What time was it, anyways? I craned my neck, twisting slightly in my seat. Tick. My eyes found the face of the clock, pausing briefly to take in the position of the hands. 3:06. Tell me it hadn't been only six minutes. Oh god. Tick. Tick. Tick. Where was she? The least she could, the very smallest courtesy was to at least—
The front door suddenly slammed, and I froze, head cocked. The rhythm of her gait confirmed it, and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. She came skipping in through the doorway—she never walked, not if she could help it—and paused in front of the window, in front of her chair. She was back-lit by the light slanting inwards, her slight frame obscured by layers of brightly colored clothing, by greens and reds and browns. Standing there, frozen, she looked statuesque, goddess like. You could almost see the simple curves and folds of cloth, the poise with which she must have once held herself. “Alli?” she said, questioningly, and I smiled in spite of myself, relieved. She had, like all things, changed with time. She, if nothing else was, was malleable, flexible, ever-changing and omnipresent.
“Sit,” I said. “We need to talk.”
A smile played at the edges of her mouth, jokingly, teasingly, and I couldn't help but grin back. She slid into the chair, simultaneously dropping her bag onto the floor. It fell with a heavy thud, things inside clattering and jangling before settling into silence. “About what?” Her voice was light, airy, and she leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head, body taut before releasing and slouching forward. Bangles clanged on her wrist, and she spread her hands out, slender fingers decked out in rings, her nail polish pink and chipping.
I paused, hesitating before saying, sternly, “This writing thing, well, it's jut not working out.”
“Oh, c'mon! What are you talking about?” Even now, she couldn't be serious. Her eyes were smiling, even when her mouth wasn't, and everything about her was distracting.
“That's the thing,” I said, dragging my eyes away from hers. “I just don't feel that we're both as, um, committed. You know, on the same page.”
She tossed her head, grinning again. She paused, making me wait, pushing a stray curl behind her ear.“Alli.” She laughed a bit as she said it. “Seriously!”
I rapped my fingers on the table, irritated. “What? I thought this was, you know, an equal partnership! You help out, I help out—every one's happy.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she smiled again, impishly. She leaned forward, and that's the thing, I couldn't help myself—she was practically magnetic, and I found myself leaning forward too. “I'm your muse, remember? I show up, bring some inspiration, and disappear again—that's my job!”
She laughed again, and I was tempted, in my suddenly foul mood, to burst forth into cliches, and liken it to the tinkling of silver bells. Clearly, she wasn't doing her job.
“Anyways,” she said, standing abruptly, “I think I've—” she paused, shoving up her sleeve to glance at a watch that wasn't there. “really gotta go!” She grabbed her bag from the floor, and skipped out the door, before hesitating, placing her hand on the door frame. “I'll be back,” she said, firmly.
I looked up, suddenly hopeful. “Soon?”
And then the impish smile was back. She turned the corner, disappearing out of my sight, a single, lilting word drifting back to me: “Maybe.”