His word processing app is full screen across the desktop and his flute is empty. And so is his story. He’s got to get at least one paragraph written before he will permit himself a refill.

Inspiration strikes: he remembers that woman who thanked him for not man-spreading in the back of the shared taxi. He removes his feet from the desk, plants them on the floor, and sits up straight. Hands to the keyboard. He gets five sentences down; they are a bit workman-like but there will always be time go back and add poetry later. He has the germ of it now.

Satisfied, he walks down the hallway to the kitchen. As he opens the refrigerator door, he envisions the future. It is opening night for the story’s film treatment. He’s standing outside the cinema as the press corps takes their photographs and yell their questions. To his left is the actress who plays the taxi woman. This actress is young, pretty–the it-girl of the moment. He turns to her: “I can’t believe you got my character so wrong. Where was her vulnerability? You projected way too much confidence.” She is stunned. Before she can reply, he climbs into the waiting limo and unwraps the white, silk scarf around his tuxedo jacket.

Back in his kitchen, he pauses before he extracts the bottle from the fridge and shakes his head. “I have to demand a say in casting in the film contract,” he says aloud. He pours himself another glass of champagne and puts the bottle back on the shelf.

Sprawled now on the love seat next to his desk, he opens Tinder and looks for someone to celebrate his future success with tonight.