It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, exactly, to be sitting in a booth on a space station with a man whose writing you had pored over for years, devouring every damn word. But she didn’t want to be a dumb fan, she wanted to see the man behind the fame and the talent, like she had done that night in Cuba. Surely she owed him enough to get herself together?
“You’re right, I didn’t know much about you except your first name and what you did for a living,” she replied. “Though in hindsight, I probably should have guessed from those two facts and the glaring Cuban nightclub clue…” Abi dissolved into soft laughter, sweeping her hair from her face. “And the boxing, now that I think about it. Am I a total idiot for not figuring it out sooner?”
Cake did sound good. She loved cake, and candies and cookies, having a huge sweet tooth in general, even though she attempted to avoid them. Her gran had made this stuff called potato candy and it was so damn addictive… “Oooh chocolate. I fucking love chocolate, you know. If you’re a person who hates chocolate, we definitely cannot be friends, that’s like a hardline thing for me.”
She would need something to distract her from the notion of former ponies. Fucking ponies, man. Jesus. Perhaps fucking and befriending Ernest Hemingway was really the dullest thing that had happened around this station for a long time. “I have no idea if there’s a difference or if one matters…” she said, half-astounded. “How do you wrap your head around all this? You’re dumped on an island, right? Like in an ant farm for a maniac, then you go home for years because why? It’s insane. And yet I haven’t seen any cannibalism or forts or gunfights. People seem to cope here. So many fucking kids running around though, Jesus. I guess there’s no a lot else to do but have children.”