Hi, all! This is my first shot at fanfic; I hope you like it enough to check out forthcoming chapters. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Chapter One
Homo habilis, homo erectus, homo antecessor, homo…shoot. What comes next? "Next stop: Dundas," announced the automated voice of the bus. Nice try Metro, but I doubt my professor will accept that answer as the next stop on our evolutionary timeline. Tomorrow's anthropology exam weighed heavily on my mind as I rode the cross-town bus back to campus. I just worked a double at the coffee shop and was dreading the long night of studying ahead of me. Trying to clear my head, I opened my tote and pulled out the novel I recently purchased; fiction was always my favorite vacation—a compact escape.
"Palahniuk? Really?" a voice in the adjacent seat asked. I looked up from my copy of Damned and met the green eyes of a stranger.
"Excuse me?" I replied, cocking my head at the guy.
"You look more like an Austen fan." The stranger's lips curled into the slightest of smiles.
"And I thought I looked more like someone who doesn't want to be bothered, but clearly, you have seen through that façade." I matched his lopsided smirk.
"Ouch! You misunderstood; I meant my remark to be a compliment. You don't look disturbed enough to enjoy Palahniuk."
I gave him a quick once-over: dark hair, dark clothes, and that dark grin. He was attractive, but I had a feeling that he knew just how much. "So you must be a fan of him then," I winked, trying to knock down his smugness a rung.
His chuckle at the jab drew my attention to his lips, and for a moment, I wondered what they would feel like on my own. I could feel the blush coloring my face, so I bit my lip, hoping to distract my mind with another sensation.
He leaned in, still holding his gaze with my eyes. "How's the book?"
"I just started, but it has already pulled me in. " Sort of like you and this conversation. "The style reminds me of a Judy Blume novel, but bleak and perverse. And the characters are like The Breakfast Club, if they were dropped in Hell," I added.
"His satires always leave me satisfied, enlightened—his writing is so raw, and forceful, and dark." The stranger's eyes shone, revealing how much he admired the writer. I connected to that passion, to the ability of words to make you feel something…especially in parts you thought empty.
"Sometimes I think his characters and plots are a bit too sinister, bordering on sociopathic."
"But to be a truly great writer, you need some damage to draw on."
"That sounds like it comes from first hand experience. Do you write?" Please be a writer, or please start by writing down your phone number for me.
"I'm in the playwright program at University. Second year. What about you?"
"Freshman, majoring in English." A match made in literary heaven? "Has any of your work been produced around—oh shoot, my stop is next." I said, not really wanting to leave the bus. For the first time that weekend, I wasn't thinking about school or work, but rather about the stranger before me. I stood and added, "Nice talking to you. Maybe I'll see you around?"
"Time will tell, pretty eyes." His pinking cheeks revealed that he wished he could take back that cheesy line.
I stepped off the bus, and before it could pull away, I reached into my bag and pulled out the book I almost always carried with me. I looked up at the window where he sat, his eyes still on me, and I waved my well-worn copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion at him. He smiled; his first full smile that bus ride. And I thought, while his smirks were charming, his smile was beautiful.