She sat at the end table on the creaky, mahogany balcony. It was definitely the smoker’s section of the American-style bar, but she was no smoker. However, her coat would disagree. Matching the color of ash more than often and smelling of a distinguished campfire. She always thought she wouldn’t fit the “author” stereotype, not because she didn’t aspire to be one, but because she didn’t think it was her style and that, frankly, it was overdone. But here she sat, an on-the-rise author camouflaged as a fresh out of university go-getter, tiny purse-sized notebook on the table and sitting alone with a cosmopolitan in hand as the world around her kept revolving. She was supposed to be meeting for a book deal- her first book deal- but as her many successfully planned rendezvous with mysterious men could tell you… it did not happen. She glanced over as the ever buying patrons of the bar approached her table one by one, asking for it many times throughout the evening. Her answer was always a sassy “I didn’t pick this spot because it was convenient.”
You see, the truth is she had never actually sat there before. She had never actually been to this bar before and she definitely did just sit there because it was convenient. No, in fact, it was all a bluff; she sat there because it was the only seat not too close to a heat lamp to make her Florida-born blood boil against the cold, English rain. It didn’t take well to synthetic sun. She didn’t understand England. How everyone was totally fine being completely snarky and bland but maybe America was that way in its own way and she never realized it.
At times this thought made her feel like a partial psychopath, immune from the normal human understanding of “just accepting it.” But nobody can be a partial psychopath, right? So she must be fine. Regardless, she could have used more of the heat lamp, there was a massive downpour on her walk over and her bright orange hair was glued to her face. There was too much of an ego in her to move though, especially since so many had asked. It may rain a ton in both Florida and England, but it was a different rain. At least that’s what she told people.
If you were to ask her she wouldn’t know how to explain what she meant. The rain is just…different. Then she’d tell you to just visit the other place so you understood. She would then tell you the drinks were not different. But isn’t exaggeration in a story an author’s best friend? And if it not be in exaggeration in drink reviews as an author, then what else could she possibly be good for?
None the matter, she finished her drink, put her journal away and rose while brushing off the remaining ash that had fluttered from the ashtray onto her in the breeze. She left just as silently as she came; she was not one to quarrel with boars of “The Brass Pig” for too long. Hogs cannot be tamed when rushing for the table now unattended.