“What are you doing in here?” said Margaret.
“I’m writing,” said Johnny.
Johnny adjusted himself on the toilet seat and turned the page of his notebook. Margaret turned on the light.
“You’re writing in the dark?” she said. ”Why don‘t you put on the light?”
”I thought I could think better in the dark. You know how it is when you get a great idea? It always seems to happen when you’re trying to sleep or when you’re just waking up. I thought writing in the dark would help stimulate the muse.”
“Then go down to the kitchen and stimulate her. You love writing in the kitchen.”
“That’s because I’m surrounded by all that food,” he said. “It’s a comfort to write in the kitchen. Now, thirty pounds later, I’m looking for a change.”
“By writing in the dark?”
“No distractions,” he said.
“Distractions?” said Margaret. “What distractions. There’s only the two of us. Am I a distraction?”
“Hey!” said Margaret.
“In a good way, Margaret,” he said. “If I see you around when I’m writing all I think about is sex. And when you’re not around all I think about is the age spots on my writing hand. I remember when I had only one. Now I have nine. Sad thing is, I can’t remember not having them.
“Or I get distracted by the Oreos piled up in the cookie jar. Then there’s the cows.”
“Cows?” she said. “The cows bother you?”
“No,” he said. “No bother. But did you know that you have thirty seven cow-related items hanging about the kitchen?”
“You count the cows?” she said.
“It’s easier than writing,” he said. “Or thinking about age spots. I even took an inventory. And, from the cow clock with the swishing tail to the copulating salt and pepper shakers, I get a count of thirty seven.”
“Did you count the cow stool?”
"Cow stool?” he said.
“The stool with the faux cowhide seat cushion. The stool you sit on when you write in the kitchen.”
“Thirty eight,” he said. “Some observer of things I am.”
“Stop that talk,” said Margaret. “Your observations are just fine. But you are nuts. You do know that?”
“So, how long have you been writing in the dark on the toilet?”
“This is the first night.”
“How’s it going so far?”
“Oh,” he said. “I got a lot done. A dozen pages at least.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Oh, my God!” she laughed. “What language is this?”
“What?” he said.
“Here,” she said. “Read me a little something.”
Johnny rifled through the notebook trying to find a descipherable passage.
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe I need night vision goggles. What the hell have I been writing for the past two hours?”
“Go to the kitchen,” she said. “Put on the light. Have some milk and cookies and write. You’re going to be OK.”
As Johnny made his way down the stairs he looked back and caught a glimpse of Margaret’s cleavage as she leaned over the railing.
“Go!” she laughed. “This distractions tired. I’ll distract you in the morning.”
“Love you,” he said.
“Love you more,” she said.
Johnny entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and had an idea. So he pulled the cow stool over and sat down in front of the open refrigerator and, in between slugs of milk from the carton, began to write Margaret a love poem.