location: restaurant, cafe or bar.
time: any.
connection: peer (writing, directing, acting, etc.), her boss, someone at the top of hollywood she wants to impress, a stranger she accidentally sat down with because she wasn’t paying attention or we could plot something.
she’s LATE. she’s not late by a few minutes, no, but an entire hour. imogen spent the previous night journaling and writing sporadic thoughts about her next screenplay. her moleskin journal was now littered with a smattering of thoughts, dreams, bulleted lists and descriptions of opening scenes to movies she’d probably never write. she had filled the new burgundy colored journal completely until the ink of her pen stained every page. now, it was in a heap of other journals on her desk she would probably never refer to again. imogen’s evening ended with her falling asleep with ink staining her hands; surely sleeping through the multiple alarms she had set for her meeting today.
rushing in to the restaurant with a cold brew in hand, the woman brushed past waiters and customers like a bull in a china sop. “hi! sorry i’m late,” she immediately apologizes. rummaging through her bag, she begins to pull out a cluster of items: journals, her laptop, gel pens and neon post-it notes. “you will not BELIEVE the night i had. i don’t know if it was the fact that i am two weeks clean from my vape or a change in moons or whatever the fuck but i was up all night writing so, like, you should be pretty pumped i’m meeting my deadlines!” she didn’t even think to look up at the other as she filled the table between them with the entire contents of her bag.
