hiatus : c.t.h.

"three months"

"So, Ciara." He says her name like he's tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. "Tell me all about this family of yours who need to be told how smart you are."

Ciara isn't sure why she finds it natural to talk to this stranger. But his easy smile and way of walking with his hands pushed halfway into his jeans' pockets make his dark eyes and black clothes less intimidating, and she finds herself wanting to tell him things.

"The first thing you need to know is that I am an ordinary born to a family of extraordinaries." she begins, with a wry smile. "My mum is a music whiz. My dad could most likely perform a brain surgery in his sleep."

"Sounds risky," he jokes, and she can't help but laugh a little. He's a giant dork.

"Yeah, but he could do it. My brother, Devin, he's been at Oxford for three years doing doctorate level math courses, and he's only twenty." She fiddles with her sweater, focusing on her feet rather than Calum staring at her. "He's a huge nerd, and completely socially inept, but that doesn't really make me feel better when he can determine by an equation how long it takes me on average to get ready in the morning."

He whistles, a long, impressed sort of one. "But it's not like you do nothing," he says. "You're the writer."

"Not prodigiously so," she reminds him as they pass Blackfriars station. She begins to be able to smell the meat and bread and cheese smells wafting from Borough Market. "I'm the gap year kid who likes to drift around and write about the drifting. Nothing special."

"I can't judge that until I read something you've written," he challenges her, and though she refuses to look at him still, she can hear the smile in his voice.

Shaking her head, she says adamantly, "Can't do that."

"Why not?"

"No one ever reads anything I've written. Not my family. Not my friends. Especially not a five minute friend I met near the Art Museum."

He fakes offense. "Is it because I'm a street performer? Do you think I'm some juvenile prison alumni who can't get a job anywhere else and wants to kidnap you?"

"No, idiot," she sighs, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. The way he's teasing her reminds her a bit of her brother, although Calum is far more attractive and, she would assume, far less mathematically inclined. "I'm just saying, why would I let you read something my parents haven't even read?"

"Because I don't know you," he says simply.

Confused, she inquires, "Your point?"

"Isn't it easier for you to show stuff to people you don't know?" he explains as they walk down the steps toward the sausage man at the beginning of the market. "I don't know if it's just me, but it's easier for me to perform in front of strangers than to my friends or family. I think it's probably the same for writing."

Maybe she's misjudged him. He's not an idiot. He's certainly intelligent, at least in a roundabout, street-smarts kind of way. "I dunno," she mumbles. They've reached the middle of the market now, and by force of habit she gravitates toward the bakery's stall. Calum follows her like a lost puppy, mumbling protests.

"Hello, dear," the owner of the stall, Mrs. Farland, smiles tiredly at her as she parcels out bread and baked goods to customers.

"Hello, Mrs. Farland," Ciara greets her. "Long day?"

"Yes," the older lady sighs, grabbing the biggest brownie from the shelf and wrapping it in brown paper. "I saved this one for you," she whispers conspiratorially to Ciara, handing the package to her in exchange for the money Ciara places in her hand.