Unwritten

Task Three: ☀ Entries ☀

☀ Brendan James Johnson ☀

"Hey there. Why're you sitting all by yourself?"

The man that comes up to him has a quasi-romantic feeling to him; not the hero of a novel, or the love interest, but present, nonetheless. The friend, maybe, who's in the background for most of the book until that one scene where the main character has had too much drink and almost ruins the friendship by sleeping with him. This presence is more than Brendan ever would've hoped for, and so he blinks at this man's boy-next-door-ness, takes in the crew-cut brown hair and grey eyes, the clean and hairless skin around plump, rosy lips. He can imagine being attracted to this stranger, in a way. Not the way that suggests true love coming, but a quieter way. A you're pretty, I'm alone, and nobody's ever been this forward before way. So Brendan moves over, leaving room for him on the seat.

"Just came alone, I guess."

"No girlfriend? Boyfriend?" BJ shakes his head. "Weird. Hard to imagine why nobody would've snatched you up by now."

"Just the usual: social awkwardness, shyness, chlamydia –"

The stranger freezes, stuck in a half-sitting half-standing position, an awkward transition that shows off the strength of muscular legs Brendan hasn't noticed until now. BJ's cheeks flush red as he starts stammering miles a minute, trying to explain away some misbehaviour he can't quite understand. He curses himself and stares at the drink atop the bar: cranberry vodka. Basic and simple, nothing that calls attention to itself, but tastes good nonetheless.

"I – I was trying to be witty and sarcastic and dry and I guess that failed. I thought that was popular right now."

"Relax," says the stranger. "Be yourself."

These aren't exactly the kind of instructions that work on Brendan; he's so many people, each at once, every character just a little bit, that it becomes hard to root himself in one moment, especially when explicitly told to do so. There is (and, he thinks, there always will be) a part of him that tells him to ignore the stranger, to pretend to be someone else, because whoever that is is bound to be more interesting than him. Maybe he should be like Dorian, or Paul, or Griff, or Terry, or

"Breathe, Brendan."

How does he know my name? It takes a moment for Brendan to remember the nametag stuck right above his heart, rising and falling with each breath. His eyes flicker to the stranger's then, only to inspire a frown when he reads it. That can't be right. Of course, the name might be a joke of some kind, or maybe a nickname he prefers, but it still feels wrong. You're here to take risks, BJ. How are you going to keep writing when you haven't lived anything?

He gulps.

"Thanks. It's nice to meet you, Prick."

"It's Rick, actually."

Brendan's cheeks burn crimson as he tries desperately not to run away in shame, back up to his room where he's safe from the almighty danger of social interaction. He sees, now, how the top of theP and the rounded edge of the r might form together to make one capital R, but it's too late now. The damage is done. Prick – Rick, he corrects – must hate him now. Why would he assume that anyone would have a name that absurd? Why didn't he just ask the stranger's name? Of course, that idea is more terrifying still, sending chills down his spine at the mere thought of it, but surely it's better than this. Surely, anything is better than this.

"I – I'm so sorry," Brendan mutters. "I don't know how I made that mistake. It was stupid, really, there was a crease, and the tag was – and I just kind of filled the blank and oh God, I really am an idiot, huh?"