“You’ve been writing the same bit for the past ten years.  Let it go. It’s time to move on.”

It was always on her mind but until now the words themselves never found the light of day.  From where her spontaneous voice arose that day was anyone’s guess.

He knew it as well, but didn’t like hearing it.  Who would?

“I’m going out for a walk.”

“You’ve been out twice already.”

“Third’s a charm.”

And on that pithy note he hastened his exit.  A more honest person might have described it as a jailbreak but what were the odds of meeting an honest person these days?

All cynicism aside, the fresh air did offer a break of sorts.  No need to be consumed by it all day long.  After all, there had to be better ways to spend one’s time, despite living in the age when even ‘time’ was reduced to a commodity.

Nietzsche’s heady conceit that “all truly great thoughts are conceived while walking” entered his mind.  And then abruptly left.

But like all unfinished business, his pride wouldn’t yet allow him to surrender.

“What is the answer?” he said aloud.  The bit was either too long or too short, too hot or too cold, too serious or too silly.

Well, enough was enough.

Scolding himself, he finally admitted the obvious.  As the old joke went, if his bit were made of cloth, he wouldn’t even use it as a shmata.

As usual his stealthy return was betrayed by that squeak in the door he always threatened to fix but never did.

“So, what do you say now mister?” she gibed with a smile.

“You’re right.  It’s time to move on.  From now on I’m banishing the bit from the workshop.”

“Good for you, you’ll feel better, I know you will.”

And with that, to his surprise, he suddenly remembered the feeling of possibilities, of new possibilities, hands clasped behind his back, fingers crossed.