Tales of The Author: Hector

The Author stood restlessly at the bus stop, her fingers half-frozen in the evening air. She knew her gloves were in the front pocket of her backpack, but their stiff fabric would stop her from writing. Snowflakes slowly floated to the ground as her pen caused sparks to fly from her notebook.

The Author was on her way home from the Wednesday writing café, and the bus was late. During today's writing café, the Author had spent more time than usual chatting with the other participants. They were all working on different things, but when the snow started to fall outside the windows, they felt inspired to write something together.

The result was a chaotically unorganised short story. It focused around poisonous snowflakes in an alternative universe where snow is the primary source of human nutrition.

Though the story had put her slightly behind her writing schedule, it was a well-welcomed break in her day.

The Author has been trying harder than usual to write. She wants to finish a story she's been working on for a while. The story is a birthday present for the Friend, but the words don't seem right.

The Author fumbles with the pen in her cold hands, but fails and drops it together with her notebook. With her frozen hands, she only manages to fling them further away from her toward a puddle of mud and slush when hands appear out of nowhere, rescuing her work from the gruelling fate of muddy water.

"You alright there, miss?"

The man looking at her had kind eyes; he held her notebook and pen out toward her with a look of interest.

"Yes, thank you. I don't know what I would do if this notebook were ruined." She took the notebook from his hands, her cold fingers slightly struggling to get a hold of it.

"What bus are you taking? In case you need further notebook saving assistance, I mean." The man chuckled, his laugh seemed nervous. The Author studied him for a second.

"Oh I'm getting the 24, It's alright though I'll just put it in my bag." The Author opened her bag quite clumsily but managed to put her notebook and pen in the front pocket. She grabbed her gloves and was about to put them on when she decided not to.

"Well then, I guess you're alright." He sent the Author a smile.

"Yes, thank you though...?" She ended her sentence with a question.

"Hector."

"Yes, thank you, Hector." With those words, the 24 southbound stopped in front of them. The Author started to get on the bus when the man spoke again.

"Will I get to know your name?" He rushed out.

"Maybe next time." The Author giggled slightly, the doors closed as Hector looked at her. He slightly shook his head to himself, laughed and walked away. The Author put her travel card against the reader, and when it had beeped green, she sat down on the mostly empty bus.

She found herself wondering if she'd meet him again, but dismissed the thought. When would that ever happen? The Author sighed, placed her headphones in her ears and leaned her head back. Listening to the music combine the hum of the bus engine — time to go home.