“Of course it doesn’t, that’s what trash TV is for. You don’t need to actively engage, you end up being a passive viewer and you can process what you’re seeing without having to make intellectual decisions and judgements about it,” she said, reaching for a spoon for her cake. “I love crappy romance novels and reality cooking shows and stuff like that. Hating popular things definitely doesn’t make you an interesting person, does it?”
Abi really didn’t feel like spilling her heart and her past out to a damn stranger, even though he’d brought her chocolate cake. Her short months, barely a couple years, in foster care had taught her a lot but she wasn’t prepared to go into it, just like she wasn’t expecting him to suddenly talk about his PTSD. Did he even know he had it? “That just about sums up my existence, I think. Fucked up and independent. And proud of it, too,” she added for good measure. “Nobody has all the answers on how to live your life.”
Paris though, especially in the 1920s and 30s, when style was beautiful and becoming liberated, when film stars were beginning to be a thing, when people had class and style and showed it. That sounded incredible, even if it was a dream. “I think Proust just had it worse than most of us ever do,” she surmised, still thinking about flapper dresses and smooth jazz. “There’s a lot of pain in the world, but that’s never been outweighed by the good. There has been pain and happiness, pleasure and sadness. It’s like Karma; in balance, constantly. I don’t want to feel only pain or only happiness because neither is the real human experience…” She made up her coffee how she liked, licking the stirrer like she always did. “I got the pain of that asshole in the club, but then I got the pleasure of watching a man like you beat the fucking fuck out of him because you wanted to. Karma.”
Shock filtered through her brain for a moment before she realised he must have learned about Harry Potter through someone else on the station or through one of those weird portal door things. Here she was, having a conversation with Ernest Hemingway about Proust and Harry Potter. It was weird on top of weird on top of weirder. “Well aren’t you full of nice surprises. Have you actually read the whole set of books or are you just not interested in young adult literature?” she asked pointedly.
Abi scooped up some cake and frosting on her spoon and could have moaned in sheer delight at the moist, dark, rich cake. It was like mother’s milk. “This is all the pleasure I need,” she mumbled through a mouthful, already sad that the cake would soon be gone. “I’m definitely not averse to a bit of hedonistic pleasure, Ernest, don’t think I don’t sense that undertone you have,” she said, waving the spoon in his face. “I’m just definitely not looking for a relationship or anything right now, you know? Chocolate cake is best by the slice, not the whole cake in one go.”