Jane Banbury was sitting at her desk. It was a dark desk, made of solid wood. Empty, apart from sheets of lined paper, an ink pen, a mild table lamp…
Jane Banbury had more than an hour to wait for her train and it was unpleasantly cold at the station. The café on the opposite road side was not a place she would usually visit. As a writer, she avoided crowded places, nosy people, all the smells and noise you get on a busy Monday morning in a well-visited place like this. But today, with the train’s delay on this early autumn day, there seemed no choice.
She did not feel like consuming anything, but since it was the rule of any restaurant, not to sit there without spending money, she hurriedly ordered a glass of freshly pressed orange juice and hid her tattered leather bag under the round metallic table.
She bent down, took her notebook and a pen out of the bag. But the moment she made the attempt to write a deep thought, some dreaded, familiar figure appeared like out of nowhere. It was Ritta Stevenson, the neighbour from next door.
»Hello Jane, nice to see YOU here!« Ritta bellowed and her eyes fell on the open notebook. There was no chance, that Jane could slip it unnoticed back in to her bag. »Oh, what are you writing about?« Jane felt her heart sink low down to her feet.
© Bernice Zieba
I have joined an online “Start to write fiction” course and I am posting some of my work during the process.