April 13, 2015
She sat on the bus sand-witched between a woman with too many bags and a man reading a political novel. Listening to her music at full volume she thought about her day. It had been a regular, semi-productive day at her job. She was a copywriter, and, to tell the truth, she hated it. She wished to be an author, if only a publisher would like her novel enough to publish it. She knows her novels are good because she writes about what she knows and she knows she is a good writer. Pulling the stop wire, she wedges herself from between her seatmates and escapes the bus. Since it's a nice day, she decides to take the scenic route through the park. It is uncommonly busy at this point in the evening. Maybe because it has been the first warm day in a long while. She admires the painting class she strolls past, the unsupervised children running around in circles, and the always enthusiastic roller bladers. Looking around at everything else instead of what's in front of her, she collides with a person who was carrying a stack of books. "Oh shit," she says aloud while rapidly picking up the stack that is now laying on the floor. As she looks up to hand the books back to the stranger while being extremely apologetic, she immediately recognized the face of her favorite writer.