Young Writers Society

“The Beautiful Bitch Dressed in Black”

Stephen sat on the dirty New York City bus stop. He checked his primly polished Rolex; 12:43 PM. The next bus would be there in two minutes. Perfect. He wanted to look for the inspiration for the next character in his nove; he was hoping someone he saw would be his inspiration. Last year, he had published a psychological thriller novel and now he was trying to come up with his next big hit. He had all his characters but one; his leading lady.

He looked down the busy New York City street. The 12:45 bus was right on time. The bus pulled into its spot, stopped, and exhausted fumes of smoke. On the side of the bus read “The Lighters Game by Stephen Weber.” Stephen never got tired of that. It was an ego boost for him; his name in fire engine red, on a side of a bus, for the all world to see.

A loud click of the door opening caught his attention; people started piling out of the bus. Stephen took out his notebook and started writing down descriptions. Blonde. Brunette. Red-Head. Short. Fat. Skinny. A little meat on her bones. Lanky. Obnoxiously loud clothing. Preppy. Dog in purse. Fugly.

None of these descriptions seemed to mesh right with his leading male in the book. His male character was very much like himself; strong, stubborn, maybe a little self-centered now and then. He wouldn’t want to hook up with the short, fat, red head heroine. Outside his writing world, he did not have a leading lady. Though it would be nice for Stephen, he didn’t really need one, nor would anyone put up with his cockiness.

Better luck on the 12:55 bus.

Stephen sat alone and tried to come up with more descriptions but he couldn’t find the right ones. His last female lead was cunning, stunning, and daring. He would love to have this character as his female lead but Stephen thought that copying characters was a cheap writers trick. This next character had to have the same compelling nature but couldn’t be the same.

Stephen’s thoughts of his next heroine were quickly interrupted when a woman came by and sat on his right. She was somewhere in her late twenties like Stephen. Short, choppy black hair, black eyeliner, and was wearing a black blouse, mini-skirt, and leggings. To make her black outfit complete, she had a matching small black bag and black stilettos.

What a ray of sunshine.

He studied her, wondering if this could be his next heroine. He doubted Miss I-Cut-Myself-Because-I-Am-So-Emo could rock his character’s world. She was very beautiful though with her pale skin and her bright green eyes. She also had a mysterious persona to her that captivated him. She met the beauty criteria of his characters, but he wondered if she had a personality that would match her beauty. He had to find out how she acted, thought, debated. He needed to know every last mannerism, every little detail about her life.

He looked for something to start a conversation off, anything that might be out of the usual. He hated that “So nice weather we’re having” small talk; you could never find out a person’s out look on life from that. It needed to be different. He noticed that she had a medium sized painting resting beside her slender legs; a painting of a lake house. It looked like what he imagined the house in Thoreau’s “Walden” to be.

Perfect.

“What’s with the painting?” he asked bluntly. She looked startled.

Way to start off a conversation jackass.

“Excuse me?” she said.

"I mean, nice painting."

“Thanks, I painted it for my art gallery in Manhattan,” she said.

“How does your gallery do?” he asked.

“It does well,” she responded.

“You know, I use to think that art galleries were for poetry freaks and emo people, but when I had a book signing party at one and it was absolutely marvelous,” he bragged.

“What’s your book?”

“I’m Stephen Weber,” he said as he extended his hand towards her.

“I didn’t ask who you were, ” she said, “I asked what your book was but I guess you’re to indulge in yourself to answer that.” As Stephen awkwardly withdrew his hand seeing that it wasn’t going to be shaken by this woman, he fathomed how she could she possibly talk to him like that. He was Stephen Weber after all.

“Well my book is called The Lighters Game and,”

“Look pal,” she said, “Why don’t you do me a favor and go brag about yourself to someone who gives a rat’s ass.” She quickly looked away, pulled her cell phone out of her purse, and furiously started texting.

What a bitch.

He looked at his Rolex again; 12:52 PM. He was stuck with her for another three minutes. Fantastic. He now knew that he definitely didn’t want to base his female lead off of this slut. She aggravated him like no woman has ever had. Though his veins were pulsing with nothing but hatred, he couldn’t help but look at her; she was absolutely gorgeous.

The bus came into view. Stephen prayed that this was the one bus that didn’t have his name written in fire truck engine red and in 1000-point font. When the bus pulled up, Stephen had a sigh of relief that it was an advertisement for Wicked and not his book.

The beautiful bitch dressed in black got up and adjusted her blouse. She picked up her painting and looked Stephen square in the eye. They held a steady gaze for a second; but she quickly let go, and stepped into the bus.

He now sat alone; with nothing new written on his notepad. He was too distracted by her to notice anyone coming off the bus. All he wanted was to stop thinking about her but he couldn’t; her presence shook him.

Stephen was startled when his phone started to vibrate in his pocket. It was David, his short, chubby best friend for the past eighteen years.

“Hello,” Stephen answered.

“Hey Steve-o!” the caller said, “Are we still on for tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen said, “Where are we meeting again?”

“At Luigi’s, down in Manhattan.”

That’s when Stephen was quickly reminded of the beautiful bitch dressed in black. He thought about the way she looked sitting there on the bus stop and her majestic green eyes.

“Hey how about we do something different and go to an art gallery tonight?”