The dull, uninspired day was what gnawed at her, and perhaps that was what kept Julia staring out the window of her 5th floor apartment with a look of discontentment on her face. The day had not been bad by any means, it was lovely outside, birds chirping, children laughing, the whole nine yards as they say, but that did not stop Julia from feeling melancholy. Melancholy was about the worst thing a writer could face of course and Julia Peterson was just such a person. A strand of her dark red hair fell in front of her face as she watched the world outside her window and broke her from her stupor as she brushed it out of her face. Julia looked towards her computer, the blank screen awaiting her, taunting her, daring her to sit down and fill it with words. A small frown appeared on the woman’s face as she stood, stepping over Gearbox, resident mouser and lap warmer extraordinaire, or to put it more simply, the stray cat she’d adopted in spite of it being forbidden by her lease. Gearbox looked up at her and gave a soft meow, looking over the woman’s shapely frame in the appraising way only a cat is capable of, the gaze of a creature that didn’t exactly care what she looked like, but looked all the same.
