"Would you still love me if I couldn't write?"
"I'd still love you if you couldn't speak," she said.
"That's not the same thing."
She got up from her chair and walked over to me. Taking my hand in hers, she tugged my arm until I relented. We walked together out the front door.
The sky was as black as unused ink. The fires had mostly subsided, but the smell of smoke was still strong. The air felt stagnant. She pointed to the place where the horizon would have been.
"What are you showing me?"
"I can't remember what it looked like."
"What?"
"The world."
"Oh."
"Tell me."
"Well, it was square. And everything looked like it was on sideways. The people, for the most part, walked backwards and said things they didn't mean. Their clothes were ill-fitting, and they didn't have enough respect for dogs."
"What color was it?"
"Lavender, mostly. But sometimes it was bubblegum pink."
"Write that."
"What?"
"The world."
"No one wants to read about the world. It's gone."
"It wasn't always gone."
"But it is now," I said. "I don't want to write anymore."
"You must."
"Will you love me if I stop?"
"I don't know," she said. Tears fell from her eyes, perhaps from the heat or the particles in the air.
"Come back inside."
She followed me back in. I stuffed the towel under the door and drank a glass of milk. She sat on the couch and read a paperback. I sat on the floor and tried to make the world a better place than it was.