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What are you doing?

What are you doing?

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Monday stepped out and followed Kenneths' stride.

"It's here."

Kenneth slid in his pass opened and stood aside to let Monday enter. She stepped inside and had not taken three steps that she began to undo her boots' laces.

Kenneth did the same with his and handed her a pair of the hotels' complimentary slippers.

From the hall, they were directly in the bedroom. The space had a sofa, a coffee table, and a vast king-size bed one couldn't ignore even if they forced themselves.

"Have a seat," Kenneth said.

"Eh, can I use your bathroom? I need to wash my hands?"

"Yes, it's at the end of the corridor."

The bathroom was huge and tidy. A housekeeping team probably cleaned during the day, but one could tell Kenneth wasn't the type of man to throw wet towels around on the floor or leave the toothpaste open. Monday washed her hands peed for what seemed like forever. She rewashed her hands and faced her reflection. Again she deplored how quickly she got drunk.

"Girl, what are you doing?" She murmured and took a deep breath. How she wished she had cigarettes. She would have popped all the packet in her mouth and smoked like a Looney Tune if she did. "Relax, he just wants to talk," Monday whispered as she attempted to convince herself.

She left the bathroom and found Kenneth on standby, ready to enter. Like Monday, he proceeded to empty his bladder, washed his hands, and came out to find Monday sitting on her sofa without her jacket. The womans' position was a positive sign showing she didn't plan to leave in an instant.

"Do you want something to drink?" Kenneth asked.

"I've had enough alcohol for tonight," Monday saw no need to worsen her state. Also, she wished to register everything. Not that she found the occasion something special, but it wasn't every day one got a tête-à-tête with the speaker.

"A snack?" Kenneth pursued.

"What have you got?"

"Crisps, chocolate, peanuts, and pistachios," Kenneth replied.

"Peanuts."

"I'll take the crisps. I'm allergic to peanuts," Kenneth said.

Monday wanted to say she'd have crisps too but kept quiet, and the man returned to sit on the sofa. Kenneth turned to face her, and she did the same. They smiled at one another; the situation was odd.

As expected, Kenneth opened the conversation, "so what were we saying?"

"We were talking about my books and their ending," Monday replied, surprising herself.

"Oh yes, has one of your characters ever ended up with someone other than the guy written in from the beginning?"

"Yes."

Kenneth cocked a brow. He knew how romance stories went. The first love interest an author introduced always got the girl in the end, "why did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything. The characters made their choice. Why ask?"

Even Mondays' vision of her characters was romantic, Kenneth thought. The woman believed they had a will, and the man knew he could never write fiction because of this. Kenneth was unable to perceive characters as living beings. He loved sci-fi and fantasy because the public accepted them as pure fiction, unlike the rest, where many found themselves impersonating characters.