"I'll admit, I'm still somewhat stuck in the forties when it comes to my media consumption," he admitted, with a it of a guilty look. "Don't get me wrong, I have been exposed to some incredible cinema and some fucking dreadful trash since being displaced, but not enough to form a strong opinion. A shame that not a lot seems to have changed since the uh... swooning damsel days." He thought of the disaster of the adaptations of his own novels, watching his characters stripped of any defining characteristic or flaw and turned into Hollywood. "Hmm. Three sisters and a rather overbearing mother. In case you want to start gathering data."
The more that they spoke, the more that Ernest found himself drawn into the conversation, the rest of the station just disappearing into nothing of any significance. The past didn't matter, the future was unknown, he was just wrapped up in a blanket of ideas and words and shared thoughts. "No, no, I know what he means, I think. Impoverished in Paris was my Proust moment, I think. You learn a lot from hunger." She couldn't know how near the bone she was hitting, really. That he had isolated himself for weeks, months even. That he had reached near rock bottom, drowned himself stupid in booze, and only finally found the courage to whisper for help. Asking for help hadn't always been rewarded with kindness. Sometimes it made it a hell of a lot worse. But that seemed a little too personal to point out right at that moment. It was too close to the surface. "But I'm not sure that I'd agree that you don't learn anything from happiness. You need to experience the full breadth of human emotion, don't you? Surely you don't have to b eternally suffering in order to be creative? Christ, I hope not, at least."
Ernest laughed audibly at the very idea that it was so easy for him, just because he was already established. "Oh, it's easier, sure, but I've been knocked back plenty of times in recent years. Times change, tastes change, publishers change..." He did know where she was coming from, of course, but the last thing he wanted was for her to give it up at the first hurdle. "Yeah. Write first, worry about all this shit later."
Over at the coffee stand, he realised that he knew exactly how she took her coffee, but he wasn't meant to know. He thought for a moment that he could just make it anyway, but decided against it. It might come across as presumptuous. So, instead, he took a plastic tray, put their cups of black coffee on it, a sugar pot, and a small jug of milk. Then it was cakes. A decent sized slice of chocolate for Abi, and he opted for looked to be some sort of apple pastry for himself.
"I'm not sure I would make a particularly good waiter," he joked lightly, as he somehow managed to make it back to the booth and placed the tray down. He'd only lost a very small amount of the coffee, and he was to pretend he'd never wanted that lost teaspoon anyway.