Todd sat back, looked up. "No," he said out loud. "That couldn't have taken two hours to write."
His stomach growled.
He rubbed his burning eyes.
The Octopus blinked at him. It signed: 26.
"No." Todd repeated again, eyebrows raised. "I didn't even. I didn't even poop." He said, quietly.
"Good stuff?" The Octopus questioned.
"I think so. I almost killed Toa twice --don't give me that look! I made her fall in love, too." Todd watched The Octopus, waiting for a response, an affirmation he'd done the right thing. No affirmations came.
A car pulled up, outside, and, later, drove off again.
"I need to eat something." Todd finally said, staring very pointedly at his keyboard.
He ate samosas from a restaurant blocks away. There were other things on the menu, but on Thursdays, Todd knew, the chef's true passion was conjuring samosas from nothing to perfection in twenty-three minutes. The Octopus was motionless both there and back, intentionally oblivious to Todd's lame, shambling apologies and excuses.
"I'm sorry. I need to read this, check it over. I could edit --" Todd was interrupted, the last of his third samosa whisked away by a suckered arm.
Too Late. No. Edits No. . . . Signed The Octopus . . . Grammar only. And it nodded, sharply.