What are you doing?

What are you doing?

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Monday stepped out and followed Kenneths' stride.

"It's here."

Kenneth slid in his pass opened and stood aside to let Monday enter. She stepped inside and had not taken three steps that she began to undo her boots' laces.

Kenneth did the same with his and handed her a pair of the hotels' complimentary slippers.

From the hall, they were directly in the bedroom. The space had a sofa, a coffee table, and a vast king-size bed one couldn't ignore even if they forced themselves.

"Have a seat," Kenneth said.

"Eh, can I use your bathroom? I need to wash my hands?"

"Yes, it's at the end of the corridor."

The bathroom was huge and tidy. A housekeeping team probably cleaned during the day, but one could tell Kenneth wasn't the type of man to throw wet towels around on the floor or leave the toothpaste open. Monday washed her hands peed for what seemed like forever. She rewashed her hands and faced her reflection. Again she deplored how quickly she got drunk.

"Girl, what are you doing?" She murmured and took a deep breath. How she wished she had cigarettes. She would have popped all the packet in her mouth and smoked like a Looney Tune if she did. "Relax, he just wants to talk," Monday whispered as she attempted to convince herself.

She left the bathroom and found Kenneth on standby, ready to enter. Like Monday, he proceeded to empty his bladder, washed his hands, and came out to find Monday sitting on her sofa without her jacket. The womans' position was a positive sign showing she didn't plan to leave in an instant.

"Do you want something to drink?" Kenneth asked.

"I've had enough alcohol for tonight," Monday saw no need to worsen her state. Also, she wished to register everything. Not that she found the occasion something special, but it wasn't every day one got a tête-à-tête with the speaker.

"A snack?" Kenneth pursued.

"What have you got?"

"Crisps, chocolate, peanuts, and pistachios," Kenneth replied.

"Peanuts."

"I'll take the crisps. I'm allergic to peanuts," Kenneth said.

Monday wanted to say she'd have crisps too but kept quiet, and the man returned to sit on the sofa. Kenneth turned to face her, and she did the same. They smiled at one another; the situation was odd.

As expected, Kenneth opened the conversation, "so what were we saying?"

"We were talking about my books and their ending," Monday replied, surprising herself.

"Oh yes, has one of your characters ever ended up with someone other than the guy written in from the beginning?"

"Yes."

Kenneth cocked a brow. He knew how romance stories went. The first love interest an author introduced always got the girl in the end, "why did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything. The characters made their choice. Why ask?"

Even Mondays' vision of her characters was romantic, Kenneth thought. The woman believed they had a will, and the man knew he could never write fiction because of this. Kenneth was unable to perceive characters as living beings. He loved sci-fi and fantasy because the public accepted them as pure fiction, unlike the rest, where many found themselves impersonating characters.

"I'm curious. No, actually, I want to talk to you," Kenneth made himself comfortable and put his elbow on the headrest. He opened his crisps and took a few petals to munch.

Kenneths' honesty was unsettling yet reassuring. One couldn't get confused or lost.

"What do you want to talk about, Kenneth?"

Ahawooow, the man howled inside. The womans' voice was a sin. Kenneth held himself back from shuddering. Mondays' deep voice was a blessing. "When and why did you start to write?" Kenneth asked, hoping the woman would give a lengthy explanation that would allow her voice to rock his bustling mind to sleep.

Monday didn't expect the question. After a short reply, Kenneth had a tedious manner of jumping from one subject to another. The woman wondered if he listened. Kenneth did; his thoughts ran too fast. And the man debited questions just as quickly. However, the phenomenon only occurred when the person's response interested him.

Monday sighed," younger, I went to an all-girls school. With no boys around, we all found ourselves daydreaming."

"Where was that?"

"In Annecy."

"You studied there?"

"Yes, my parents were back in Nigeria then. I lived with my aunt Bisi and her daughters Eniola, Ife, and Luce."

Kenneth nodded in acknowledgment.

"I had a group of friends at school, and at lunch, we'd sit down, and I'd tell them stories involving them and their crush. Every day I told them a bit of the tale. Other girls came to sit and listen, and I included them in the plot as well."

"Wait a minute," the man said, raising his hand to a halt, "you're telling me you told stories orally. How? Did you make them up as you went along?"

"Yes," Monday replied.

Kenneths' eyes widened, "and you added more people in?"

"Yes."

The man adjusted his position, "and you remembered all the characters and where you were up to daily?"

"Yes."

Kenneth paused and rebounded, "what's the highest number of characters you were able to add in one story?"

Monday took a second to think, "twenty-five, maybe thirty. I had to make side stories sometimes as some girls came to find me."

"What, they bullied you?"

"No, these girls fancied other girls. They didn't want the others to know, and they somehow trusted me. So I'd stay after school or come in a little earlier to tell them theirs."

"It sounds fictional, but I believe you. It's the first time I hear the birth of a vocation like that."

Monday smiled, "I loved English literature. I had pretty good grades. My poems often got selected for readings. I knew writing was what I wanted to do. I told my parents, and well, that's another story."

Kenneth straightened up; the alcohol's effects were wearing off, and his focus more precise, "what happened?"

Mondays' eyes slid to the side as she recalled the moment of her youth. "I wanted to get into the FEMIS. It's a prestigious seventh art cinema school in France. The best way to get in was to follow the Cine Sup courses in Guist'hau high school in Nantes. Monday skipped the part where her parents told her she was selfish. A good child would do anything to make her parents proud. My dad said it would not happen while he lived and breathed."

"So you're French?"

"Yes, my father came to get a PharmD in Paris. My mother, who's Nigerian as well, was in France to see family. They met at a wedding of friends they had in common. They got married, had me, and stayed there until my dad finished his studies. We went back to Nigeria, and they sent me back there when I was four."

Everyone had a story. Mondays' was a tuna sandwich of life. What held the man was how she felt this irrepressible need to write and hung on to her dream.

"How about you?" Monday asked.

"Em, I started to write leadership and management books because they're my fields of knowledge. I realized I could coach all I wanted, but if the manager, executive, whatever wasn't in a good mental state, all I said was like throwing a coin in a pitless wishing well.

"I began to observe patterns in individuals. I wanted people to stop feeling guilty and beating themselves up for not being what society wanted them to be. Many people act as though they don't care what others think, but they're slaves to others' precepts. Being happy is the first step to making someone else happy.

"Liking oneself is the only way to get someone else to appreciate you. One can cultivate attraction with positivity. People want to feel safe. They'll run away from someone with insecurities. ㅡIf they stay, they're a narcissistic psychopath wanting to take advantage or someone with just as many insecurities who believes by saving the other, they'll save themselves. In most cases, they destroy each other."

Monday didn't acknowledge his statements with a nod. Instead, she stared straight into his eyes and said, "where do you situate your mental state, Kenneth?"

The mans' cheeks rose to blush; this time, it wasn't her voice but the question. People came to him for answers, but rare were those who asked him how he felt or about his mental health. Everyone assumed he was well. Even if Kenneth was, he appreciated when people inquired.

"Do you find me attractive? No, let me reformulate. Is there anything you find attractive about me?" Kenneth asked.

The question fell like a bomb for Monday, whose eyes grew wide with stupor.

Eyes, nose, eyes, nose, freckles. Freckles, it was only then Monday saw them, the woman's heart accelerated, "eh, nothing."

"Ouch," the man swiped a hand at the back of his head, "well, I guess we can call it a night. It was nice seeing you," Kenneth said, pretending to wave her goodbye.

Monday smiled and leaned forward, "how about you? Do you see anything attractive about me?"

The man wished to scream, voice, lips, bosom, bosom, bosom, no voice and opted for, "you've got a nice nose."