The Second Hour of Creative Writing

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Well, here’s part two. Check out part one here if you like.

And for those of you who do not know: This is a series where I write (what is currently a continuous story) for one hour straight and then take about ten minutes to edit it. After that ten minutes, though, whether the story is good to go or not, I post it.

Now please enjoy the so-called fruits of my labor.

“Uh, well, yes, actually. I do.”

He casts his eyes slightly down to the ground, just a bit away from both the book and I, as if he is suddenly extremely shy and unsure of himself.

It’s a bit odd, but it only lasts for a fraction of a second, so I let it go, easing the confused look that has come across my face and thus furrowed my brows. The man quickly recovers from his character lapse once I do so, putting the confident, smiling eyes back in place and grabbing the book gently out of my hand, adding a slight, polite bow in as he takes it, obviously trying to show me a bit of respect.

“Thank you so very much for being so kind about this,” he says as he takes it. “I wish you the very best.” He widens his smile slightly at that, then spins around on his heels and returns to his bench. A bit too quickly, might I add, but just a bit.

“Um, thank you?”

I tried showing gratitude for his odd kindness right there, but I do not think he heard it. I am grateful for that, though, for it came out in an incredibly questioning manner, which could have easily been thought of as rude. And considering how this guy has treated me, rude is something I certainly do not want to be seen as by him.

As the man takes his seat on the bench across the way again, I no longer know what to think of him. Were my fantasies of a few moments ago all wrong? No, they couldn’t be! Normally I’m not that bad of a judge on character. But now he is acting so strange — with much emphasis on the acting part! It’s as if he is putting on a show for those around him. He looks a bit flustered and a bit embarrassed, yet its so well hidden that anyone who was not watching him before would never even notice. Honestly, what is up with this man?

Betts, leave him alone. He’s probably just scared of what you think of him now that you know he can speak German. I’d be scared, too, this day and age.

And so I let it go. His behavior really could be from anything. Maybe it’s fear, or maybe he’s just a bit more socially awkward than my imagination pictured his handsome face as being. But still, I just can’t get the way he interacted with that apologetic woman out of my head. It makes how he talked to me seem so…

Oh, well, Betts. Why does any of it even concern you? Just let it go. Gentlemen can act however they please. They don’t need you constantly judging.

Ah, my voice of reason, always so logical. But still, he’s suddenly too odd for my liking…

Oh, well. I’ll simply count him as another strike. Nothing new.

Train 452A departing from the city of New York, New York, and embarking for the town of York, Pennsylvania, has just arrived at Terminal 11C and will begin boarding immediately.”

The very short, very well-dressed man standing at the gate to the platform announces this to all waiting in the terminal through the very large microphone he has attached to his ticket collection podium.

What? Already?

Well, that hour certainly went by fast!

Let’s get going, Betts!

I stand up, briefly pat down any wrinkles in the skirt of my powder blue dress that may have formed during my sitting, grab my suitcase and purse, and begin walking toward the man at the gate. I turn to look back over my shoulder in order to check on my handsome German-speaker, but, alas, he is gone.

“What?” I accidentally ask out loud in shock. Luckily, though, no one is around to hear me.

But where did he go? He was right there planted firmly on that bench just a few moments ago! I turn all about the terminal but find him nowhere. Maybe he briefly ran to the bathroom?

“Odd,” someone next to me says. I glance at him and see that he is middle-aged, wearing a wedding ring and balding. He’s dressed in a slightly old business suit and gives off the aura of a father. He’s rummaging frantically through his bag, as if he’s lost something.

“Yes, very odd indeed…” I say under my breath, agreeing with him while also not speaking at him. Then I turn to face him fully on. “Can you not find your ticket, sir?”

He looks at me desperately, and replies with a no, that it seems to be lost. At that, my mind begins to kick into full gear, which, in a moment, causes me to reach into my purse, pull out my own ticket, and hand it over to him.

He looks completely stunned, but before he can protest, I am gone, already halfway across the terminal, heading for the hallway that leads to the restrooms. I hear a “thank you, miss” called from the distance behind me, and to it I simply raise my hand and give a thumbs up. Let him get on with his life. While, yes, I am once again giving up a chance to reunite with my own family, I know deep down that I must remain in this city for now. I can always go back home to the farm, but I can’t always follow a good lead, one that’s so solid I can feel it in my bones. And so I am off, heading into the bathroom in order to figure out just what happened a few moments ago in Terminal 11C.

One thought on “The Second Hour of Creative Writing

  1. Pingback: The Third Hour of Creative Writing | ledandev

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