His chin rested on his knuckles, and the sound of his heel clacking under his desk was in sync with his bouncing knee. He stared blankly at the screen in front of him, clear and white with nothing flowing from his mind. That god-awful block was attacking him again.
Michael Pierce stared at the blinking line on a white page. The line mocked him and it pissed him off. He knew better than to act off of his instinct; to drive his fist through the screen in frustration. That wasn't him. That wasn't Michael.
Instead, he slumped back against his chair. The sound of another person touched his ear, making it twitch and turn towards the source. It was the sound of high heels on the hard floor. His wife, Ming Pierce, passed by the entrance to his home office. The heels stopped as she turned on a dime. She was back in the door's frame, glaring at him,
"What's wrong with you? You look like you are ready to break something." Her eastern voice used to be soothing. Now to Michael, it made him twitch like claws to a chalkboard. He glared right back at her, hating her sneer. The tigress was a standing bundle of elegance and beauty. They all often were to Michael, a Maine Coon himself. Now, thanks to his leech of a wife, he couldn't stand the sight of those orange and black colors all dressed up in a silky red dress. Parts of her were bound to spill out. Her heavy bosom and supple curves dragged him towards her in the first place. Five years later, he couldn't be any softer in the loins at the sight of her body. It was poison like a rose dipped in toxins; Beautiful from a distance but the moment you wrap your hand around the stem, you're stung. Her golden eyes were stabbing to Michael's defenses, going right through him. He hated that more than anything,
"I'm fine." He replied.
Michael was a horrible liar. Ming could see right through it like a window.
"Yeah, right." She stepped into the room, heels getting loud enough to make Michael's nerves jump inside. She was close enough to smell her perfume, "I can see that you're far from calm."
"How do you know?"
"Your nose twitches when you're upset."
He touched his nose and felt it wiggle. He snorted and sniffed to force it to stop. She chuckled, her claws running over his shoulder,
"Can't write anymore?" She asked.
"I'll get it, eventually. I just...need to think."
"You've been thinking for hours now. Think too much and you will burn out." Ming stepped around to get behind him. She was trying to soothe him with her warm presence. Ming touched his back with her chest, pillowing his stress away for just a moment. But the memory that those big, soft and milky melons belonged to Ming brought him right back down into sulking. Her voice was so close to his ear, teeth near enough to bite, "I think I have a way to motivate you, my love."
Ming's hands went around to feel at his fuzzy chest, slipping through his buttoned shirt. Her claws dragged across his flesh, a sensation that would usually make Michael melt in her hands. She turned his head, wanting to see his eyes as her black lips drew closer. He obliged, letting them connect with his own. Their noses sweetly bumped tips as their tongues teasingly tasted one another.
She thought she had him in her clutch, as she loved to do. Michael was too far in his head to let her make it worse,
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" He abruptly spoke between their kiss.
She drew back with a growl, "Fucking asshole." Michael found it hard to believe if her feelings were truly hurt or what. Either way, he couldn't care less about her feelings. Especially after the things she's done. She fixed her top, as if her tits were any less already exposed to the bare teat almost, "Don't know why I'm even still married to you."
"Then file a divorce already." He spat, going back to staring at the screen.
"You would love that, wouldn't you, Michael?" She asked.
"You wouldn't." He said, "Because you'd lose access to my money. Then you couldn't afford those heels you prance around in clubs with."
"Fuck you."
"Haven't in a week now. Won't anytime soon until you get the fuck out of my office."
The tension in the room was suffocatingly thick. Ming huffed and stormed out, purse in hand. She was inches from out of his view, just enough where he couldn't see her pause.
She looked back at him, watching him stare at his computer like a sulking statue, seething with frustration. It left a feeling in her stomach every night. Knowing that feeling was never going away unless Michael changed was the reason she was leaving. Being around him, knowing that she was no inspiration to him was eating her alive, fueling her desire for fun and escapades far away from him.
She looked back at him, watching him stare at his computer like a sulking statue, seething with frustration. It left a feeling in her stomach every night. Knowing that feeling was never going away unless Michael changed was the reason she was leaving. Being around him, knowing that she was no inspiration to him was eating her alive.
Michael heard the jumble of her keys, and soon, the slam of the front door to their penthouse. He was left alone with his own thoughts. None of them were happy nor peaceful. All he could think about was Ming and how badly he wanted to smash her pride into the ground, stomping it until it was dead.
There was a time where he would be happy to wear a ring, and even happier that Ming was wearing the other one. But now, their marriage felt empty, as if there was an enormous chunk of it taken out. Their love was like a cake that looked delicious from afar until you got close enough to see that the insides were hollowed out. He wanted to love Ming again, but knowing...--
Michael stood from his chair and walked over to his mini-bar. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, he poured himself a shot. He didn't want to think about her or anything at the moment. His mind needed a refresh and burning liquor was just the remedy...just as someone approached from behind--
"Excuse me." Their voice was soft. Too soft to be that skank wife of his.
Michael turned his head to see it was only their young housemaid, Isabella Flores. Her petite body was something he had to get used to, as she was about a foot and a few inches shorter than Ming was. Her introverted nature shined in the way she stood, defended and preserved. Michael knew it was mostly due to their huge gap in age, as she was only twenty-one compared to his thirty-eight. Her cream colored fur had splashes of chocolate brown around her face, paws, and pointed ears--All of it brushed and clean.
"What do you want?" Michael didn't mean to sound so sharp toned, but Ming didn't leave a good vibe in the room. Isabella could see that and made it clear that she wasn't going to ask if he was okay, nor was she going to make him talk about it. She was hired to clean, not converse.
Still, she had an opinion that she thought would touch him just a little bit, "I still think you're worth more than your talent, Mr. Pierce."
Those words did something. To her, it appeared to be the opposite, but Michael was never good at showing his softness anymore. That, and Michael found it too difficult to accept any compliments when he couldn't even get the first sentence of a novel out,
"What talent?" he said.
