Jenn hummed to herself as she unlocked the door to her apartment.
She’d gone to the park on her first day off in months- mandated by Dr. Green-
only to find Harvey taking up her normal bench. She’d meant to turn away, find
another spot, but… he’d looked so forlorn, sitting there with a blank sheet of
paper. Never mind that he was in love with their curmudgeon of a concierge. Jenn
knew all about loving the wrong person. It was part of why she was here and not
there, anymore.
Jenn shook off her reminiscence like a dog shook off water. Think only of the past as its remembrance
gives you pleasure. Elizabeth Bennet always was a favorite of hers.
So. Jenn cast a critical eye around her kitchen, grabbed a
banana and a bottle of water and flopped down on the couch. She was almost
asleep when the knock came at her door.
“Whoizzit?” Jenn called blearily as she extracted herself
from the blanket she’d been lying under and stumbled to the door. A very large
eye stared back at her through the peephole.
“It’s me.” A voice called unhelpfully from the other side.
Jenn opened the door to Harvey. He was holding a crinkled piece of paper in his
right hand, and he shoved it nervously at her. “I wrote you something.” A
little bemused, Jenn took it from him, and then stood there for a second. I thought he was writing poems for Ms. Davis?
A bit of her confusion must have shown in her face, because Harvey began to
explain. “Well, my writer’s block, you know, it didn’t go away when you helped
me. But after you left, I was thinking about how nice it was of you, you know,
to stop and help, and then, well. It kind of just wrote itself.” He gestured
shyly at the paper in Jenn’s hand.
Jenn couldn’t stop the small smile from escaping. Harvey
beamed at her in response. In for a
penny, in for a pound. “Harvey… I’ve got some bottled water and leftovers
in the fridge. Would you like to come in?”
Five minutes later, they were seated at her small kitchen
table, talking over dinner, still musing over Harvey’s writer’s block.
“So are you over your writer’s block completely, then?”
“I don’t know if it’s really writer’s block. I think…”
Harvey hesitated to say it. “I think… I think I’m just burnt out. On Ellen.”
“Oh.”
