The Elf in the Room

A weekday evening in the Ocean Room. I’m on the sofa with my blog log, drafting a post about inner peace. After asking if I’m okay with her company and I say “Of course!”, Ter is surfing the internet while the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack plays on iTunes. I have just found my groove when she says, “Come look at this.” Obligingly, I put down my pen and join her at the computer.

What she wants me to see has nothing to do with my present mindset, so I make appropriately supportive noises and return to my writing before I lose track of the theme. A short while later, she announces that her maternal grandmother’s maiden name originates from a village in Finland that translates to “Peter from the village.” Said village has existed for 400 years.

What I was about to write down vanishes from mind without a trace. I make a pseudo-coherent sound of appreciation and go back to seeking inner peace.

I am twice more interrupted with tidbits about her potential relatives. Granny Olga is a family mystery, though my suspicion that she was Russian royalty becomes less likely as her granddaughter uncovers more Finns with her surname scattered all over cyberspace. Twice more, I reclaim the latest broken thought and continue composing my philosophical post. The R&J soundtrack is a perfect complement for the candlelight inside and the rising wind outside. It’s truly a gorgeous album; I fall into it every time I hear it, losing myself in the passion and romance of music inspired by the Shakespearean tragedy.

So when a burst of brass flatulence erupts at increased decibels from the speakers, I lurch out of my skin, the mood shatters, and I lose my cool. “What the hell was that?”

Ter gives me blue Bambi eyes. “Looks like my ‘cousin’ Esa plays the saxophone.”

“Not very well!” I snap, still twitching from the disruption.

“He has a website …”

“Don’t—go—there!”

She assumes the mischievous mien of a preschooler squaring off with the babysitter. I continue to glare daggers. It’s one of those tense moments poised between laughter and murder. After prolonged internal debate and some effort, I choose laughter. Ter, 85% certain that I won’t kill her in a fit of giggles, starts laughing with me. In fact, we laugh until it hurts, and the piece on peace is abandoned for the night.

This is why writers prefer to write alone.