It was a busy breakfast morning. He took up an entire table.  His book bag dominated the chair opposite him.  He pounded his laptop in spurts. His Red Sox cap was on backwards, and from time to time he nursed what might, two hours ago, have been warm chai tea. She hesitated at the entrance. He motioned something between a wave and a beckoning command.

"I hope you don't mind our meeting at Starbucks. A girl can't be too careful. When I read your ad in the Boston Underground, it sounded a bit strange. So I wanted someplace very public. Are you sure you don't need an actress like in a play or movie because the ad sounds like that?"

"I'm a novelist. This is the way I create. It's revolutionary."

"This isn't some kind of come on? All the fiction I've ever read is where the writer makes up everything."

"If you're uncomfortable we can stop here, and I can move on to my next appointment."

"I'm not uncomfortable.  I'm having difficulty imagining what I'm supposed to do, my role."

"I outline the plot. This happens then that happens. Once I do that I just look for people to play parts in it. It's like those TV reality shows, but I have certain types in mind. I reserve the right to change things if I don't like what I see. Right now, all you really need to do is to talk to me while I take a few notes."

"Okay, fire away."

"Why did you come to be a prostitute?"

"I'm not a whore! What ever gave you that idea? Just because I answered your lousy ad which, incidentally, misspelled the word 'literary.'"

"See, I like that--raw indignation. I can use that. You have a big vein in your forehead and it bulges out. I'll make it into a simile, something like the Amazon River overflowing and swelling its tributaries with anger."

"So you're going to sit here and push my buttons and take down how I react? Am I gay? When was I last molested? Anal sex?"

"Those are certainly avenues I might pursue, but this is just a general session. If it works out, we'll meet several times, like an artist's model. I'll read a scene, a setup, and you'll tell me how you'd react, what you'd be thinking. I might have you dress up in some outfits so I can render the visual picture in words."

"If this works out for both of us, what do I get from it? How much are we talking about here?"

"It depends. I've done this before on a smaller scale, short stories and the like. I use real names, places and I'm very good at describing people. Lots of people enjoy seeing themselves in fiction. They point it out to others, a conversation piece. That's recompense enough."

"But no cash?"

"I'm not avoiding the economic issue. I just don't know. Right now I'm testing out this idea. I might use several characters or it might be one or two. If I went the way of a first person narrator focusing on you totally, that would be more work for you so I'd compensate you accordingly."

"And how much of my time are we talking about?"

"I figure an hour today. If I get into a rhythm it could be between two and six hours day for an indefinite number of days. I usually work in the mornings between seven and noon and, if this takes off, I might need you by my side quite a bit. Maybe an hourly rate would be best, say ten bucks or so."

"Okay, suppose I take you up on it; what's a typical session like."

"Well, take right now. What would you order?"

"Nothing, it's just after ten in the morning and I've already had breakfast."

"Suppose you were meeting a guy for the first time, and you wanted to make an impression."

"I'm down to earth. I drink regular, black coffee, not this fru fru, latte stuff."

"What about reading material; I see you have a Newsweek with you."

"I asked a friend what to bring and he said to go with a news magazine as it was more neutral, whatever that means."

"Pretend your date is late. You got here at five to ten, but it's now twenty past. What's going through your mind?"

"Well, I suppose . . ."

"You need to use the bathroom but, if you do, he might come in and you'd miss him. Are there any solutions you can think of? What do women think about when they're urinating? What if he were to tell you he's had an erection all morning thinking about you?"

"Can I get a word in?"

"There's no need. You asked me what you'd be doing if you were to get the job, and I just gave you a sample. I'm not a woman. There are lots of things I don't know. I like to get the realistic details. So I'd sit at my laptop and fire questions at you. You'd answer and I'd write stuff down. Most of the time it would be the first thing that comes into your mind, but, as I said, I reserve the right to change it to fit the needs of tone and theme."

"I think this is whacko. You're just using my life because you don't have any imagination. You probably don't even have a plot; I'm your plot."

"It's not a strictly biography because I'm not using your actual life, just what you think and your physical reactions. I'd use your feelings about your mother, for instance, but not what events transpired between you. That's the plot which I am perfectly capable of making up unless you tell me something that's too juicy to pass up."

"And suppose I take the job, when do I start?'

"You already have. Listen to this.  "It was the wrong outfit. She knew that now. She had worn white pants but the panty lines were as big as jersey barriers. If she went into the bathroom and took them off, god knows what might show through. She thumbed through the Newsweek which had cost her $3.95 at the Out of Town Newsstand in Cambridge and noticed the cover ink had begun to sweat off onto her fingers and everything she had touched since entering. She grabbed at her purse, diving deep for a compact to check if she had ink on her face. What was she doing here? She was enough of a romantic to feel that maybe, like in a Meg Ryan movie, she would meet an interesting man.  From what she knew of novelists, he would be interesting at first but a total bore to live with. At thirty-three she cursed her life for leading her to this point'"

"You wrote that while you were talking to me?"

"I certainly did. I have the details but what I need is to cross check your thoughts. For instance, why did you pick white cotton slacks that are sort of see through? Why not wear a thong? The last character I interviewed told me she always wore thong underwear even though she rarely wore white. That's the type of detail I need from you."

"How many more are you interviewing?"

"You're the third. I've got a Northeastern junior to see and then two over forty women who might fit the bill."

"Are you famous? Could I go to the library or Barnes and Noble and buy something you wrote?"

"I publish on line; I've got a web page. There's some flash fiction and a few poems on there, although I don't really consider myself a poet. I'm a novelist."

"You know what my instincts tell me. That you're a pervert! If I went along with this everything would go fine for the first couple of sessions, but then it would happen. You'd casually suggest that I strip down to my underwear, thong or not, so you could describe cellulite better. Then you'd want to see me in the shower. However artistically it starts, it will end up as sex. You probably think I'm just a desperate office temp, which I am, but I've been around the block enough times to know a con man when I see one. Tolstoy and Dreiser wrote about women and didn't have to hire someone to tell them what to think. Now, if you'll excuse me I think I've wasted enough of my life. You can keep the magazine to remember me by."
****
She thought of throwing her latte on him, but caught herself at the last minute. This scum wasn't worth it. It was enough for the other customers to hear her call him an asshole. He looked enough like a sex criminal to embarrass him into getting out of there before the manager sauntered over and asked him what the hell he was doing to the female customers.