“So, tell me more about yourself,” says the guy with tousled brown hair and a gorgeous smile, sitting across from me at the table in one of my favourite coffee shops.
“I’m a thief,” I say and casually take a sip of my coffee, while he nearly chokes on his.
“Well, technically I’m a writer, but you might as well call me a thief—I observe people, watch them really closely without them ever noticing a thing, I take notes on every detail and when I’ve gained enough information on them and their lives, I steal their identities and work them into my stories, for which I get paid if I put them into the right words…”
I stop when I notice him staring at me wide-eyed, maybe a little bit creeped out, probably trying to decide whether I’m serious or not, then I add with a mischievous smirk on my face: “Relax, I’m not planning on stealing anything from you—I’m going to make you deliver it on a silver plate and before you know it, you’ll be begging me to take whatever it is you have to offer.”
He doesn’t say much for the remainder of our date and as soon as I finish my coffee, he motions for the waitress to inform her that he’d like to pay, as if he can’t wait to leave, and it makes me think that, sadly, I might be a decent thief when it comes to story material, but I’ve got yet to learn how to steal a man’s heart.
Written for this week’s FSF. It’s almost 2am and I don’t know what I’m doing.