A red and white striped long sleeve shirt. Who wears a long sleeve shirt in the dead center of July?

“It’s- well… uh,” Rusty stumbled for something to say.

“What are these?” she asked, sitting down, not waiting to find permission. “They look like a story, can I read?”

The way she had barged into Rusty’s life would be the very same reason he would eventually come to despise her. The way she never looked two steps ahead of her, the way she only focused on today.

“It’s just… something I’m writing. It’s, uh- It’s not too good.”

“Don’t say that about yourself, I’m sure it’s fine!” she threw the papers aside. “I’m a writer myself, you know.”

“Really? What do you write?”

“Well, I’m a journalist but, I dabble.”

“You… dabble.”

“Science fiction, mostly.”

Rusty would hate the entire genre soon enough.

“What do you write?”

“Well, uhm. I’ve mostly written plays and the sort. My parents were into that stuff. But now I’m working on an autobiography.”

“Drama kid turned chronic masturbator. I like it.”