+TYPED OUT-

+JUST A GIRL-

Once Kenneth had a target, he followed all their movements. It happened every time,

Someone caught his attention, and he would challenge himself to keep theirs. Kenneth dreaded the idea of seeing an attendee snooze or doing something other than listening. Their annex activities distracted him. Like the one time, he had this woman who ate Werther's toffee throughout his talk. She kept unwrapping the toffee and crunching. The sound of crunching paper distracted Kenneth, who just wished to scream: Bloody hell, the sound is driving me bonkers. Can you fucking stop that, please?

Kenneth did nothing as such. Finally, it was the woman's neighbor who told her off.

There, his target didn't seem to be interested in his words at all. The woman even spoke to someone else.

Like a professor, Kenneth wished to say, "care to share. I'm sure everyone wants to know what's enticing enough for you to ignore me."

Kenneth loved to know and see his people hanging on every syllable of the words he pronounced. The sight of one sheep straying away from the batch triggered moments of doubt that had Kenneth revise while speaking every single term of his speech in search of their relevance.

The man tried to convince himself that his speech was too much of a cerebral exercise for the woman.

"Oh, you came," Ben whispered.

"Yes, but I'm leaving. I'm not interested in looking at the one-person BTS show of motivation."

Ben muffled a giggle, but the silence-filled room let loose the sound of its echo.

Kenneths' accent began to strike its Irish cords as anger began to bubble. No one seemed to notice, and the distractors continued their conversation without an ounce of remorse.

After Ben, it was Monday who leaned to whisper, "I can't believe you like stuff like this. When does it finish?"

"In twenty minutes," Ben replied.

"Alright, I'm going back to the booth. See you in a bit."

Kenneth paused, leaving the listeners hanging on his last words as he watched the woman go.

Monday's departure shouldn't have impacted Kenneth, yet the man was flustered. Losing a participant, even one, felt like a failure for Kenneth, who desired to enlighten people on the path of happiness.

Kenneth figured Monday probably awaited his conference about love. His eighth book, Happiness, alone? It had already spent eighteen weeks in the top ten on Amazon and twelve in the NY Times. Its concept reeled readers he could not attain with his self-love, leadership, or management books.

With this book focusing on the perimeters of love and seeing the sentiment as science with bare equations, Kenneth converted fiction readers needing reassurance.

The woman who left was probably of the lot who needed to hear the singles situation was temporary.

Monday went to the first floor and stepped out of the vast terrace for smokers. She needed nicotine; she only heard five minutes of Kenneths' words but already found herself in the tumult of self-questioning. She hadn't smoked in a while. Still, she always kept two cigarettes in her purse. The smell reassured her; it wasn't rare to see her inhaling someone else's smoke vipers.

Monday spent ten years of her existence trying to become a published author. Her thirtieth birthday was a month away. She was single, without a child. She had no savings, as she used most of her writing advance reimbursing her loans and people who lent her money over the years.

She didn't even have a car. At the same time, she didn't even possess a driving license. The woman barely began to live and appreciate her life that this Mr. Mosley asked her to inventory her actual self.

People like Kenneth were out of phase with most realities. All listening to him did was trigger Mondays' buried insecurities.

French by birth but of Nigerian origins. Monday had that explosive shaken beer can pressure to get married. She could speak of Ben, but the two were in the same boat.

Monday was the oddity, who never knew what she wanted from life, or at least she didn't express it. How to tell African parents who worked all their existence to offer their only child the best education you wished to become an author?

When Monday expressed her wish to major in English literature, her parents' response was, "stop that nonsense."

The woman found herself enrolling in law only to quit a year after to enter medicine, where she forfeited the year after a do accountability. Monday ended up abandoning and doing a two-year licentiate degree. All this to finish as a RATP help desk agent.

Of course, her parents compared Monday to her cousins, who all had high-paid jobs. Trader, engineer, doctor, lawyer, everyone was the joy and pride of their family.

Except for her, even if she made it as an author. Her parents were embarrassed by their daughter, who wrote books with explicit sex scenes.

For her father, Monday wrote porn, and it was an absolute disgrace. As if it wasn't enough, her aunts talked behind her back. They assumed she described her sexual experiences in her stories.

Becoming an author resembled some aspects of a coming out. In Mondays' case, her family opened the door to her secret garden and were disgusted by what they saw.

"No man would want a woman who smokes and writes pornographic books," her mother's words haunted her.

Monday wrote romance, but she preferred them to be realistic. Sex was real and part of life, the act conceived life, why fuss?

She understood her parents were disappointed, but she detested the description tags, which did not define her.

The memories made Monday dizzy; she needed a cigarette; she opened her purse and lit. The woman dragged on the cigarette before pulling her jacket in a wrap; she then pressed her elbow on her stomach to lock the fabric and drew on her cigarette with her other hand.

A cool breeze swept over her, taking the building anxiety with it.