He had become pathological about it, sometimes spending as long as five minutes lost in a daze, counting back, making sure he hadnt somehow forgotten one.
The first sweep of the axe did no more than knock the wind from him - this was really what he thought until he landed on the carpet smelling his own blood. He had thought she was putting on an editors hat - maybe even trying on a collaborators chapeau, preparing to tell him what to write and how to write it.