a morbid little drabble; don’t know where this came from
The sound of the typewriter key striking paper had a singular finality to it. Done, it was done.
There was nothing left to do but gather the rest of his memoirs and have them sent to his agent. The publishers were eagerly awaiting the manuscript, according to their last letter. It was sure to be a best seller, they said. An editor and copy editor had been selected, too; they would work out any changes, if needed, with his mother.
He smiled. By this time tomorrow, he wouldn’t care.
It was 1959. This was Texas.
The chair beckoned.