She stepped tentatively into the room, as though
there were landmines concealed under the carpet and she was afraid of
detonating them. Her eyes darted around, suspiciously scanning the dimly lit
interior. She ambled forth, approaching an empty table. Her handbag was
clutched under her armpit as if to protect it from snatchers. Then she sank
into a seat. A man sitting at a table next to hers smiled at her. She didn’t
smile back. Instead, she stood up and headed for the door; her steps swift,
like she was escaping from a host of enemies. Then she stopped at the door,
turned around. She must have reconsidered her move. Or recollected something.
Her eyes fell on the man again. She tried to smile. Alas, it was only a smirk.
She stepped towards his table and sat across him. She looked into his eyes,
albeit timidly. Could he be the one?
In My Room/Office/Studio
"A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right." - John K. Hutchen.
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