In all honesty, she was trying still to wrap her head around the idea of not being in Boston, working night shifts and going to classes, the rare day off when she got to go to the movies or out to dinner with her ex-boyfriend. Being on the station was like going from 100 miles an hour to a trotting pace; slow, steady, kinda boring. “Why? Haven’t you been here for years?” she asked with a chuckle. “Or are you really that curmudgeonly that you haven’t had at least a passing interest in people. At least in women, come on…” she grinned cheekily. “Don’t shatter all my illusions about you, Papa.”
Abi snorted in laughter, crinkling her nose at the visual image of cold coffee body shots. That was definitely not sexy. “I think most men would find boobs sexy, no matter the context of the situation. I find women to be far pickier than that. Have to have the right underwear, glowy skin, made-up hair… boobs are just awesome, man.”
It was a little annoying that he didn’t even smile at her compliment, and indeed frowned. Did he think she was being a suck-up? She hadn’t lied; if you looked up enigmatic in the dictionary, it had a picture of his face next to it. Maybe he just didn’t like outright compliments or something. She was just an idiot. “Yeah that definitely sounds like me,” she agreed. “Egocentrism is a concept all writers grapple with.”
She looked over at her watch, checking how long they’d been talking and balked when she saw how long it was. Hours, really? It felt like half that.
“You’ll get back into it, there’s always something new to say, even if you’re not willing to say it aloud. Most nights, I end up having internal conversations about random shit, trying to figure out things in my head. Maybe one day it’ll turn into an actual plot line and I can make myself proud again, huh?” she smiled softly. Abi hoped he would write again and ask her opinion. God, what if he listened and it came out shit. She’d feel so bad.
Abi took the proffered arm from him as they walked, feeling a weird sadness at the lack of real parks. “No wonder everyone scrambles for a door, right? Must be like Woodstock when one comes around. You must all get sick of fakery and metal and echoing tin walls, rattling inside a sardine can. I do.”