Last night I went to one of my favourite watering holes to bid farewell to a good friend.

I was sitting along the bar with an open seat to my right when a gentleman walked up and asked if the seat was taken. It wasn't. 

He pulled out a tattered copy of a Hemingway novel and a small black notebook, sat them both on the bar in front of him and ordered a pint of Guinness. Was he really planning on squinting through his thin-framed glasses and attempting to read in a near pitch-black bar? At midnight? With a crowd of strangers shouting drink orders over his shoulder? Was he trying to be ironic? 

Curious to see if this guy was serious, my friend casually inquired about his books, to which the man responded that the notebook was for work, the novel for pleasure. What kind of work, she wanted to know. He said he was a writer. A writer of what, she asked. He explained that he writes for several publications. Which publications, she asked, apologizing for being nosy. He claimed he'd rather not say. 

We assumed he was sad and out of work and let him go back to his beer. He dove into his novel, turning the pages with rapid succession. After six or seven pages, he put away the novel and pulled out the notebook. He stared deeply into the blank page, waiting for inspiration to come. Then he quickly began scribbling. Three lines later he abruptly pulled away his pen and stared at the chicken scratches. He appeared extremely pleased.

I would have snooped over his shoulder to see what he had written, but I didn't have to. I was just happy to have found someone in this city who is way more pretentious than me.