A horse is a horse, of course, of course, except if you’re the betrayer Orelia Mason, the talking author.

“Luck.”

She’d used the word luck!

“How lucky was she?” she said, keeping a straight face as if she actually believed the lie.

“Right place. Right time. Right book.”

Oh, baby, you don’t know the half of luck.

A thought occurred to him as he watched her. If he didn’t switch off the thing, she might slip out from the idiot box and appear in the middle of his living room.

How wonderful to see you William. How lucky! How fabulously exciting. How ironic.

He marched to the rear of the TV, bent and swung his arm so quickly that he cracked his knuckle on the cabinet. He had meant to tear out the power plug, not injure himself. As he grabbed his hand, he cursed that female hack for sending him more distress.

So he left his uneaten breakfast and escaped from the house. He paced around the block three times, as far a cry from his usual prepare-yourself-to-write stroll as he could imagine.

The lump of muscle inside his chest hurt; the ache so strong he wondered if this was a heart attack. He was too young, surely? Thirty-four’s only a smidge outside youth, right?

When the tightness grew no worse, he realized this was simply the pain of Kismet smacking across his life. There was no comfort anywhere, anymore.

Over the past few months, each time he arrived at the path which led to his apartment block, he paused. He wanted to go inside. Knew he should get back to work. Write that next book. That’s what they said, the author-sages. Move on from the failure, produce and find solace in the craft.

Except, he couldn’t bring himself to face the blank screen, the television set, the radio or even the newspaper, which still sat provocatively on his kitchen table. He’d burn it later, just for good measure. Because there was no telling where Orelia Mason would appear with her living the dream taunt.

He understood her game plan. Ingenious. For she wasn’t stupid. Oh no, from the beginning he knew exactly what was what. She’d played him like a foolish fiddle.

William looked down the street, then back at the apartment front door. No, he couldn’t go in yet, so he continued walking, purposeless but with purposeful strides. Before he realized his actions, he’d climbed aboard a bus (he didn’t even remember waiting at the stop). A cheery, redheaded driver with the audacity to brush his arm as he bought a ticket. “Today will be a great day,” the dope assured him. How annoying.

He felt a touch better for a moment; in an odd way, unweighted. Then the emotional clarity left as he fought off the calm infusing his body. He looked at the man behind the wheel and thought, no way would his day be great or the rest of his life for that matter.