Short story: The Writer

He was a cool customer, with his strut, his dark oblong glasses, his shaggy fringe, his pilled charcoal beret. He started slinking when he hit the bar, tucked his shiny shoes up onto the rung of the stool and stared through his glasses, through his fringe, out from under his charcoal beret at nothing in particular.

Sweat rolled down from his chin into his turtleneck sweater. His tight black pants hurt a little, digging him in places he didn’t want to be dug, at least not by pants. He pulled out a long cigarette and a fancy hotel matchbox. He lit up the cigarette and sucked it like a pacifier. He didn’t look around. He wasn’t one of those sort of people, who looked around to see who was looking, sneaking glances and smiles and giggles and wordless cool or hot flirtations. He was all business, serious business. He was here not for the drinks, not for the peanuts, not for the food, not for the sleek girls and the tailored boys, but for the ambiance.

He knew what it took. He knew he had to have discipline, hard work, smarts, and above all, the look. He had the look. It was what he’d got first. Today, actually. The first day of the rest of his life.

He pulled out a fabulously thick and luxurious note pad, smooth as virginal thighs. He might write that down, even though he hadn’t really had that much experience with thighs, virginal or otherwise. He pulled out an ostentatious fountain-pen, and studiously ignored the hot waitress who was trying to get his attention.

“Screenplay.” He wrote on the first page.

He looked down in satisfaction. He called for a drink to celebrate; something sophisticated, but hard. Something to get him into the vibe. It was going to be a long night.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: pacifier, screenplay, customer, oblong, and matchbox.

Image courtesy of Sami Keinänen