The girl sits. Adjusting her black bowler hat ("It's like Cornelius Fudge's," she would laugh, "but not lime green!") and smoothing her braids, a notebook is acquired from her bag and we are let a peek inside. It is filled with books- Jane Eyre and Sherlock Holmes- along with a few Sharpie pens and mechanical pencils that are hooked onto the magazine clippings, loose-leaf scribblings, and notebooks of a vast array of sizes that scatter all other available room. And there it is- a wallet, black and white, with ever eclectic key-chains. She is writing. She looks around the room, sips her frappe. She writes. She is watching the businessmen, the ladies, the kids. She watches the employees and the mothers of toddlers and the scholars. All here. All prone to be watched. And as she watches, she writes, scribbles and lines and pages of stories. Imagine that the man over there with the sunglasses inside is a spy. Imagine that lady holding the bulging diaper bag is a smuggler. Imagine that kid is a genius. Imagine that girl is troubled. And find out why. This is what she writes. It is story-telling, but on paper. It is an art, she says to herself. Even if I cannot draw, I am an artist.
She sits. She writes. It is the bookshop cafe.
And that is a portrait of the eclectic authoress.
With ever so much love,
the eclectic authoress herself