After staring at the white space on his screen for most of the morning, Peter rose and walked to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of java. With no blood circulating above the thighs his legs felt disconnected from his upper body, arms swaying back and forth until he held the muddy glass coffee pot in one hand, the other hesitating on the bag of beans.
Why couldn't he see what Charlie would do next? For two and a half days now, Peter had furrowed for an after-the-murder resolution for his killer but had come up with nothing. Zip, nada. And the writer was again doubting his career choice, renegotiating the terms of his love life, wondering if he should take up jogging, and considering giving up caffeine.