" Bollocks! That won't do either!"

Arthur Kirkland crumpled up yet another page of his journal and tore it away from the book's seams forcefully. He'd been attempting to write the next chapter of his novella for weeks, but it each time he sat down to work on it, the words escaped him. It had always been his dream to be a famous writer one day, spinning yarns of fantastic places, romantic plights, and heroic battles. Even as a boy, he had made a name for himself regaling bedtime stories to his younger siblings, who would listen in awestruck wonder and rush to bed the next evening for want of more. Now, it seemed, that Arthur was at an impasse. He was living in shabby one-room apartment in New York, having sold almost everything he owned to move from London to America in hopes of following his dream. He'd been introduced to some of the literary greats by his uncle, witnessed the masterful works of musical theatre and plays; he was certain that if he was going to make it anywhere as a writer, it would be in America. And yet…

What am I even doing here anymore.

"There's my grumpy brit!"

A light and cheery voice Arthur away from his dreary thoughts. Although he'd only been in America for 6 months, he'd managed to find his way to a quaint little diner that, in his opinion, served the best tea there was in this entire infernal city. He would come, every afternoon around two o'clock, sit in the booth nearest one of the large glass windows, and order his favorite cup of English Breakfast. No doubt he was a regular at the hole-in-the-wall establishment, and often times his beverage of choice had already been brewed and ready soon as he walked through the door. Even the staff knew him by name, often conversing with him as he enjoyed his drink (and admittedly avoided the trial of finding inspiration to write). In particular was one Amelia Jones, a lovely young lady with big dreams and an even bigger mouth. She was always the first to greet him, exuding her charismatic charm. It was quite contagious, really.

Today was a day like any other, so he shouldn't have been so surprised to see her, standing there in cafe garb that did her curvacious figure no charm what-so-ever, a tray in her hand and a pencil sticking out from behind her left ear. Her bright blue eyes locked into Arthur's face, just now realizing that he'd been staring rather rudely at her for an uncomfortable period of time.

"Hello? Earth to Arthur!"

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry, Ms. Amelia, my head seems to be in the clouds this morning. How are you today?"

"Ha, your head is always in the clouds, Arthur." Amelia teased, shifting the tray into a more stable position between her palm and shoulder. "And what did I say about calling me that? It's just Amelia. O.K?" She put emphasis on the latter part of her sentence that went beyond that of a friendly reminder.

He knew better than to challenge her instance, merely smiling in return.

"Quite right."

Amelia looked over Arthur's features critically, a look of concern growing as she spotted the discarded pen and sorry state of what Arthur called his "Writing Journal". Due to Arthur's frequent visitation to the cafe, she was familiar with his exploits and aspirations of writing, but she had not once seen him in here with a pleasant expression as he scribbled in that journal of his. Today was no exception.

"What'cha working on today, Art?" She checked over her shoulder to make sure that no tables called for her attention, and then placed the empty tray on the table adjacent to her. "Another thriller like the last one you were writing?"

"It's just the same old one I've been working on since I moved here, Amelia. There hasn't been much progress." Arthur sighed as he clutched the wad of paper he still held in his hand from his earlier rejection.

Amelia caught sight of this, her curiosity too much for her to resist.

"Oh? You've done some 'scrawling' today, as you call it? Let me see!"

She reached her hand for Arthur's, the man snatching it away just out of reach.

"It-it's really nothing! Nothing but a failed drabble of ideas that aren't worth anyone's time or effort attempting to decipher. Don't you have tables to attend-"

It was too late, as Arthur had been so focused on his rambling, he hadn't noticed Amelia skillfully slip behind him and grab the bit of tattered paper that poked out of his fist, wrenching it free of its prison. "Oi! Give that back!"

Amelia giggled as she stepped a few paces from the table, beginning to unravel the wrinkled mess. Arthur scooted his chair out from behind him to stand, but was either too embarrassed to pursue her further or, perhaps, he was genuinely interested in what she would have to say.

Her eyes flew across the page of beautifully-written script, his handwriting being one of the many charms her strange gentleman companion had that made him so unique. That and his luxuriously thick eyebrows. She looked up over the rim of the paper back to Arthur, who seemed frozen mid-step, and gave a nod of approval.

"This is a really good idea, Arthur. Why did you crumple it up like this?"

Arthur huffed and finally made his way over to her, eyes turned to the ground.

"There's no essence to it at all. The main character lacks any sort of believable motivation, the antagonist is unrealistic and bland, and there's still cohesive progression. It's utter rubbish and I would very much appreciate if I could have it back to throw it away in the bin where it belongs."

He held out his hand, palm upwards, awaiting for the scrap to be placed in it, and was confused when it never arrived. He turned his face back up to Amelia's, the young woman's characteristic big-lipped pout displaying a sure sign of disappointment in his actions. He sighed.

"Amelia…"

"Arthur."

The two shared a moment of silence until the Englishman finally caved.

"Why do you insist upon being so stubborn about this? I've attempted to abandon this story twice and have not yet solely for the fact that you're so intent upon torturing me to continue." Arthur ran a hand through his messy blond hair in exasperation. "What's got you so bewitched about it?"

Amelia placed the hand that was holding his paper on her hip, her tone becoming more serious.

"It's because I hate seeing you so down on yourself all the time, Arthur. You've got wonderful ideas up there in that head, even if it is up in the clouds all the time. You're just too critical of yourself, and need an outside perspective from time to time." Amelia shifted her feet, voice a bit softer than before. "Also...I really identify with the main character. He's got a real sense of duty, ready to pursue his dreams despite having grown up in such awful circumstances. It's kind of inspirational, ya know? It gives me hope that maybe one day I can get off the 'farm' and head for a life somewhere out there with the stars."

Arthur observed Amelia quietly, his hands falling to his sides. Of course, he knew she hadn't been speaking of a real farm; her clever analogy spoke of his novella's protagonist in comparison with her own goals of one-day becoming a star on the New York, perhaps even Hollywood, stage. She'd expressed to him during many of their afternoon talks that she was only at this cafe as she waited for her big break. She'd dreamt of being an actress since she was little. She'd taken what little savings she had as a teen and dropped out of school to pursue professional acting courses here in the city. She'd been banished from returning home, even blocked off from ever seeing her family again until she'd proven that her choice had been worth it. After over a year of auditions and lucky breaks, she'd still only managed to find work as a waitress in the same lonely cafe that he had stumbled upon himself.

Unlike him, however, she was always bright and happy. She was always looking forward to tomorrow, hopeful and determined that tomorrow was just around the bend, and that her chance would come. Arthur could feel the edges of his mouth turning up, his face softened. She was the one who was inspirational, not him.

"Are you planning on coming down anytime soon? I have to get back to work."

Amelia stood there, tapping her foot, a light blush on her cheeks as the other customers had begun to stare at the pair for all the commotion they were causing.

"Oh! So sorry." Arthur's hands fumbled, reaching out for the paper that Amelia had finally surrendered. Instead of pulling it away immediately, his hand lingered on her own, exchanging glances with his conversation partner in admiration. "Thank you, Amelia. You're right, I really should get back to my writing."

Amelia was never one to shy away from anything. Still somehow this subtle touch, the appreciation in his voice, had caused her typically unshakeable resolve to falter and she hurriedly withdrew her arm back to her as soon as Arthur retrieved his work. Her eyes shifted to the side, dismissing his compliment with a hardly audible 'you're welcome', took up her tray and left for the other side of the cafe.

Arthur returned to his table against the large glass windows overlooking the city below and took another sip of his, by now, cold tea. He straightened out the edges of his paper and placed it securely inside the front cover of his journal. Taking up his pen once more, he began to write.