Chapter I

Tap, tap.
'It was quiet in the coffee shop that afternoon.  There had been a short rush before 1, but it seemed most people were getting lunch delivered and working through their unpaid hour.'
Tap tap tap.
'Still, the day crept on and there had been a steady trickle of customers until about half an hour ago.  Now, the only thing that could be heard was the espresso machine ticking over, giving the silence a kind of vibratory hum.'
Tap. 
"No."
The tapping ceased as the typing came to an abrupt stop.  He shook his head in disappointment as he realised that this was all dross.  Sighing, he pushed the seat back from the desk in resignation.  Is it really this difficult?  Five years of study (not forgetting that Master's...), too many unpaid internships to mention and a regular gig as an opinion columnist all seem to count for nothing when it gets to writing about something that hasn't actually happened.  Still, he didn't get through all that by giving up at the first hurdle; that and the uncanny knack of getting on people's good side can't have hurt either.

Leaning back in the chair, he looked up at the shelves above his writing station, filled with precious artifacts from over the years.  His Graduation photo, arm in arm with smiling parents before dad died, the 'Good Luck!' card from his last job waiting tables til midnight, and a curious needlepoint that bore the words "a broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise", a gift from an art college girlfriend, ex.  The only thing they had in common was a love of scripture rather than each other, but it was a strange comfort in moments like now, when inspiration deserted him.  Above these, shelves rose to the ceiling: packed with manuals of style, collected works of Shakespeare, Brecht, Kant, and all sorts of curios; their spines faded from years in the light.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he grumbled and retied the cord holding the robe closed around him.  Barefoot, he strode firmly over to the desk that managed to dominate the huge study.  Rooting through the third draw, he finally uncovered a large leather pouch from the litter of nicotine patches.  Slamming it on the desk, he fetched out filters, a bag of tobacco and liquorice papers.  Rolling with nimble fingers, he turned about face, the robe swishing behind as he opened the curtains to a bay window.  The shock of the light threw his furrowed brow into sharp relief, as the light of a full moon reflected off the calm surface of the river.  Something padding outside to room suddenly caught his attention, if only for a second; was wasn't alone, after all.  Turning back to the window, a sharp click punctuated the air as the lighter burst into life, and he drew heavily on the little brown cigarette. 
"Who the hell would write about some damn coffee house anyway."  The ashtray was full.  "Shit."
"Maybe I should write a poem about a boat, send that to the publishers.  I could tell them it was a children's story.  I could make a lot of easy money."
He heard the padding noise again, and this time leaned out of the bay to check the time: 2am.  "Oh Christ I didn't realise..."
Adding to the corpses of half smoked and long forgotten cigarette butts, he quickly shut the curtains and returned to the bureau that the laptop lived in to check over what he had written that night.  "At least I've got something down.  I couldn't bear to imagine that I'd just wasted the last six hours...", he chuckled grimly, while trying to lick the nicotine off the back of his teeth.  Shutting down and switching the lamps off, he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be in a meeting at the office by 10 in the morning.  He issued a small groan at this point, completely synchronised with the perfect eye roll of dismay.

As he reached for the door handle, he heard it again; padding across the outside landing floor, a dread footfall in what should have been a silent house.  He recoiled, and felt the air chill around him.  "This... isn't happening.  Nope!", he rallied and swung the door open with force, in some sort of show of territorial supremacy to find... nothing.  The sudden pang of fear followed immediately by the realisation there was nothing there made him feel like an idiot, and he snorted in his displeasure.  The entire place was deathly quiet, and the only note in the darkness was light creeping out from underneath the bedroom door.  Crossing swiftly and not without a hint of paranioa, he slipped into the bedroom pushed the door closed behind him, issuing a sharp thud, which made the her stir in the bed.
"Nnnnn... Have you been working again?  What time is it?", hoarse with sleep.
"Yes, but shhhh, it's late."
"How late?"
"Late enough.  Don't worry about it.  Come on", he whispered, doing his best to slide in without disturbing her too much.
"You shouldn't smoke so late"
"What?"
"Pfff you were supposed to be giving up."
"I know, I know.  I'm trying."
"You are."

It was only 2:15.  Still early, he thought.  He could definitely miss the meeting.  They wouldn't mind too much.  He already knew what would happen, it was just one of those office bureaucracy things, a formality.  As he lay down to sleep, he turned on his side and faced away, so the smell of the tobacco wouldn't be her problem too.  Drifting off, the image of a huge black dog flashed into his mind's eye for just a second and then gone; with that, he dreamt no more.