The battery on his laptop was low. He had forgotten the charger again at home. This story would be short.
He had been reading Hemingway all day. That guy Hemingway sure could write. Probably could write better in two pages than I can do in next two decades. Stay positive, he reminded himself. Anger is more useful than despair.
In the corner of the cafe, the girl of his dreams was busy chatting with a cruel looking man with a perfect jawline. Why do pretty young girls attract cruel looking men. Perhaps that’s why he had managed to stay single for four decades. Anyways girls interfered with his writing. The happier he was, the less he could write.
His neck was hurting again. I really should spend more time with people I can look upto than with laptops I look down into, the man thought to himself. Perhaps it was the cold. Perhaps he was getting old. Perhaps he was using too many perhaps.
When he was young he had dreamt of being a rich famous good looking man. They would chant my name, he had promised myself when he was twenty. They would not chant my name, he reassured himself when he was fourty.
Perhaps it was the Hemingway book. Hemingway wrote in a deceptively simple style. Hemingway and Churchill were the two Nobel Prize Winners of Literature he looked upto.. My heroes, said the man. My heroes would never write a short story like this.