It was 5:20 in the morning and I had not had my coffee yet.
I looked out the window to see the world passing by in a blur; with my headphones tucked in tight and music blasting. It was much, much too early in the morning for my taste, and I hadn't managed to kick myself out of bed until about 4:00. With a demand to be at the train station by 4:30 on the Eurostar by 5:00, I had barely had time to shower and put myself together, much less make a pot of coffee. And the only thing they had on the train was tea…or decaf.
We were almost to London, and I had two conferences for fantasy writers to attend; one at 9:00 and one at 11:00. I had been writing since I was a kid. Being a good half Irish or more, and loving Ireland, I always had a desire to try to live there, so after my debut novel was published in America I moved to Ireland, the land of my forefathers to study ancient Irish history for a book series I was planning to write alongside the sequel to "Eieldren Child" my debut. After living here for three years, the distinct dialect started to rub off on me, and soon enough I had the Irish accent down to an art.
My debut novel was starting to go big here in Ireland, and also England. And I was looking forward to the fantasy conference, and signing. Then this afternoon around 3:00 I had to head back to Ireland for a Comic Con; as you can see my day was packed with activity.
The train came to a stop. Looks like I was here. I quickly got up from my seat and grabbed my luggage. Then hastily exited the train, checking my phone I saw that it was 6:00. Now I know you're wondering, 6:00? But the conference is at 9:00! Why bring you in 3 hours early?
The answer is, because the directors and sponsors of the conference are unreasonable and have no faith in the participant's ability to show up on time. (This is good, because I am really not very good at that.) They also scheduled a pre-meeting at 7:30. All of us will meet together for an hour and a half about they're conference and what they can do to get me to come back next year.
As I stepped off the train an attendant in a business suit handed me a set of keys to a rental car, then walked me to it. It was a ford focus. Fancy. I thanked the attendant, whose name was John, and jumped into the driver's seat. It had taken me a while to get used to driving on the opposite side of the road, but know I breezed through the streets carefully eyeing for a coffee shop. When I found a nice little nook relatively close to the place where the conference was going to be held, I pulled up and into a parking spot. I reached into my bag for an off white knitted hat that would slouch on my head like a very loose beanie. This was my secret weapon. I hoped no one would recognize me in it; if anyone would recognize me at all….
I hopped out of the car, slinging the bag over my shoulder and shutting the car door with a swish of my hip; and in my raggedy tennis shoes, tromped into the shop.
It wasn't too early in the morning, around 6:20, but Colin Morgan was in need of coffee. He was a fairly good morning person, always getting up early to get a jump on the day, but today was very full for him…and he knew he needed that rich black substance so popularized by Americans to get him through his schedule. As he pulled into the coffee shop a silver ford focus pulled in at the same time. He looked over at the driver. It was a fair skinned young woman that looked about 23. She had very dark brown hair that was a little longer than shoulder length; it was gently curled and swooping. She pulled an off white hat out of her glove compartment and threw it on. She was beautiful.
Colin watched as she opened her car door and jumped out, then with a burst of personality shut the door with her hip. He smiled to himself; classic, he thought. She was wearing light blue denim jeans that were ripped and tattered from use, with big holes in the knees, and flared bottoms. She wore a simple black tank top under a vintage looking green t-shirt that had a big Irish flag on it. Over that she wore a hanging tan sweater. Over her shoulder was slung an indie bag with pens and pencils sticking unorganized out of the side pocket. She was slender, but not too skinny; average. As she tromped tiredly into the shop in her thick soled tennis shoes, and headphone cords trailing out from her hair, Colin's heart skipped a beat. Then throwing on his own beanie hat, and shrugging on his faded army jacket, he followed into the coffee shop.