He picked at the cellophane and unwrapped it. Flicking the top of the pack open he pulled one of the contents and held it comfortably between index finger and forefinger. He leaned back in the chair and put this thing to his lips. An instrument of satisfaction, sometimes of guilt and shame. He removed it from his mouth and tapped it on the table. It would be easy to place it back in the pack, but why bring it out in the first place if he did not want it? The best policy was to just do it. Don’t think, just do it. He returned it to his lips and sucked at the tip. He remembered once at school doing the same thing and the stains it left on his teeth. The experience had not deterred him and  became more intense over the years. It was a habit he had tried to kick many times, but somehow he never could. He basked in the comfort it brought. The little stick held comfortably in his grasp. The wafting lines that flowed from its end. He leaned on the table, opened the notepad and took the implement from his mouth. Today was a day of guilt. He promised himself he would make a start but had not been able to. No reason, no ideas and no impetus. He stopped slobbering on the pen and returned it to the pack. Tomorrow, he would start again tomorrow.