By most measures, the man who entered the coffee shop was nondescript: a youngish blond man in jeans, a windbreaker over a T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap. He ordered his drink and took a seat in one of the plush chairs, propping his feet up on the table in front of him, and taking out a plain Moleskine notebook and a blue roller-ball pen as he sipped his coffee. He also took out his journal, that damned black leather book that had been driving him crazy, and opened it, placing his Moleskine inside.
He had a restaurant to review this evening -- he was getting a behind-the-scenes look at a nice place down the block as part of one of his pieces for the Times, but that would be later. He would be Victor then, the virtuoso turned published author and journalist, but right now, he was J. Gatsby, publishing things Victor would not dare for his literary reputation.
He glanced up with another sip of his coffee, pausing at the end of a line. He really did need a nice scotch, he thought, with another sip. But he could wait until later. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.
Then, he felt it. There was this urge, growing with each passing moment. It was like a pull, a curious affinity, and he turned to his notebook and started to write again, trying to resist it. His eyes wanted to glance up, but he held firm.
It was like that urge to write in that damned journal! Where was it coming from? He shook his head. He was going crazy. That had to be it. This writing under two names, trying to maintain two separate identities, it was getting to him.