"Roles?" he questioned her, unsure as to her meaning at first. Then she listed them for him, and it all became very clear. "Ah, those roles," he nodded. Christ, he'd read some terrible novels in his time, and he'd met writers who absolutely swore by them. It was ridiculous to him. He might've not always hit the bullseye with his female characters, but he hoped to god that he'd managed to make them more than just stock characters from the list of roles. "What, they do that in real life, as well?" It was news to him, honestly. He'd always thought of it as the trait of a lazy writer, but in reality? "I mean, I've read some god awful, one-dimensional female characters, but I didn't realise anyone was dumb enough to consider... representative."
He listened to her curiously; some of it, he'd heard from his own Abi, but other bits were brand new. It was exciting, in a way. She was getting to know him, but he hadn't bargained for the part where he would have to get to know a new version of her as well. She even said he wasn't boring her, which was thrilling. He realised that he hadn't found anyone to properly talk to since he'd been back on the station. "But see, that's just it. There are different sorts of strength, and women often have the strength to be open and honest and actually ask for help. We've successfully twisted it into a sign of weakness over the years, although I do wonder if the wars have a lot to answer for there. You're not fucking traumatised, you're a coward, you know?"
Ernest loved her passion, he loved watching her eyes sparkle and her expressions change as she spoke, loved seeing her get all fired up. He adored when she had the courage to disagree and contradict him, or when she felt the same way and he could see her bouncing out of her seat, as if she was just so thrilled that someone else understood her. It was all so beautiful.
"The doors, Abi," he pointed out, placing a hand on her shoulder as he stood, and giving it a little squeeze of reassurance. "You write here, you sell there. More than half of For Whom the Bell Tolls was written on that damn Island. Did it reach an audience?" he asked, giving her a wink before he disappeared.
He headed over to the counter and held onto the edge of it, taking a couple of deep breaths. It was okay - it was going fine, wasn't it? In the middle of the conversation he had been sure it was going very well, but doubt always found a foothold as soon as he let it creep on in. No. It was good, it was definitiely good, he told himself as he filled two cups with coffee from the self-serve.