Ben explained that the first day was the most tiresome, and Mondays' aching jaw attested it. Never had she spoken so much. All she dreamt of doing was taking a good shower and sleeping. No, it would be a good shower and writing instead thought the woman until Ben told her the fair booked a bar for After-Fair drinks.

Great thought Monday as she realized she had to abort her plans.

According to Ben, the bar was the best place to make contacts as those who snubbed others in the BookInc halls usually let their guard down in front of a pint.

Monday preferred wine to beer but could play the game for one night.

The Tamis bar wasn't far from Mondays' hotel, and she figured she could make a run for it after an hour.

Her plans changed the moment her eye spotted the tuna sandwich man's reddish hair.

Ben assured Monday the bar was closed for the public. Kenneth spoke with someone at the counter. The person with him was either a fellow author or another professional.

"Guys, I found a table."

Monday and Ben followed Tim to a small table to which they added a stool. They ordered their drinks; all admitted the lager comforted.

"So Tim, how did you find the fair?"

"It's crazy; I've always been a visitor. Being on the exhibitors' side is something else."

Tim was a communication graduate who wished to become a line editor. He had worked for their publishing house as a proofreader. Enthusiastic, Tim accepted the entry-level job opportunity. For the moment, he backed the teams on different events of the season. The pay as expected was low, but at least the publishing house took care of transportation and accommodation expenses. Also, he got press access to events he could only dream of attending.

An avid reader, Tim appreciated all genres. One had the chance of being chosen with someone like him screening a manuscript.

Monday didn't know before being published that some drafts didn't get scrapped because they were terrible. Occasionally the writing came after the rest. It sometimes, see, most times depended on the editors' taste: their religion or no-religious precepts, political or non-political views, even their mood.

Some were sensitive to themes, pathologies, whether psychological or psychical, could have one out. Past trauma found themselves woke by triggers, and editors ruled out some manuscripts.

Monday was a supporter of the tell-all movement. Writers were often the only outlet to speak up about society's devious going on. The industry needed someone as open-minded as Tim, in her opinion, to freshen up bookshelves. Some subjects required the window offered by literacy.

The group chatted and laughed for a while before mingling with other professionals. Tim went to speak with some self-published authors. While Ben spotted one of his Exs, who was part of the BookInc community and decided to find out what he was up to, Ben also wished to get some hints on the eventual winners of the BookInc book prizes.

Left alone, Monday sent a message to her cousin Luce, the only person in her family who found she had an incredible job. The nurse read all of Mondays' books and saw nothing needing censorship. Luce, who worked in the HIV/AIDS ward, appreciated the explicit scenes that included contraception. She believed her cousin faithfully exploited the phases from the foreplay to the multiple takes, not making it seem people had sex from dusk to dawn without a pause. Also, the love story and relationships took up ninety-nine percent. Luce was a fan who prompted co-workers to read her cousins' books.

Once she sent the message to Luce, Monday went to the counter and ordered a glass of wine. Kenneth wasn't there anymore, and the woman guessed she wouldn't figure out what tuna sandwich meant.

"What would it be, sir?"

"A Guinness, please, mate."

Goosebumps pinched Mondays' skin as the tuna sandwich man's voice vibrated behind her ears.

Monday turned and lifted her head to find Kenneth and his well-garnished copper beard, which triggered her single gal reflection mechanism.

Monday hated the beard trend. Correction, she was over it. Tinder had given her enough of broom-brush face tattooed guys' profile pics. There, Kenneth's groomed copper beard was too much for her eyes sight.

Even as they stood, Monday knew she would have neither matched nor clicked on his profile. He had that poor intellectual dress sense that stated: I'm too clever to coordinate; such ponderings are beneath me.

Also, his face harbored the self-sufficient look of the guy who got everything he wanted when he desired.

"Excuse me, what does tuna sandwich mean?"

Nooooooooooooo, Monday howled within. How could she blurt it out without even sparking a match of conversation?

"Eh, it's a sandwich with tuna and mayonnaise, which one can addㅡ."

Mondays eyes widened with dread. Was Kenneth frankly going to play dumb?

An unwarranted grin appeared on his face, making wrinkles around his eyes visible, "only kidding. Why do you ask?"

"Eh, you lifted one of my books earlier, read the back cover, and said tuna sandwich."

"Here, sir."

"Thanks," Kenneth took his beer and turned to face Monday, "did you enjoy my conference?"

"I asked first," Monday said, wanting to redirect the conversation to her issue.

The man took a sip of his beer. Of course, the Guinness mousse decorated the hairs on his upper lip, which he swiped off with his hand.

Yes, she hated beards, Monday thought as she watched the man do.

"So, my conference?" The man's eyes beamed straight into hers, giving Monday an under spotlight impression.

"Let's say it wasn't for me. So what does tuna sandwich mean?"

"Which part didn't you like?" Kenneth pursued. He was curious; as always, he thought his speech was pertinent.

"Can we get back to the tuna?"

"I thought I was pretty good." Yes, the man had the confidence to say it.

Monday closed her eyes and took her most poised voice, "Mr. Mosely, do you mind telling me what tuna sandwich means to you?"

Kenneths' eyes swept over her as he took another gulp for his beer. 

Monday had a medium brown complexion, bright brown eyes, with the classic winged eyeliner some found sexy, and Kenneth found tacky. Her hair was neck nip length with springy curls that gave her a juvenile look and reminded the man why he loved long, straight hair, which made a woman seem sophisticated.

Something about curly hair brought the word neglect to Kenneth's mind. All the curly-haired women he knew were airheads, loudmouths, or incredible flirts.

 It seemed the tighter the curls were, the more eccentric the person was.

Monday psychically catered and appeared as a role model for her readers in the 18-25, see 25-30 max-age bracket. Kenneth found her plain. Nothing stood out or retained his attention except her voice.

It was a deep, almost sultry sex hotline type of voice that made one want to say, talk to me dirty.

In Mondays' mouth, a tuna sandwich found a new sexier variation. Most women in the man's entourage had high-pitched voices, which they modified to sound sweet. Mondays' low tone without a hidden intent made the man attentive to her words.

"Mr. Mosley."

"Call me Kenneth," the man said and smiled.

Monday sighed in exasperation, "Kenneth."

Excellent thought, the man, even his British household appliance type name, sounded hot.

The woman was bland but managed to arouse his curiosity. She wasn't his type attraction-wise, yet Kenneth found it pleasurable to hear her plea. He liked games, especially those he led.

"Kenneth," a man yelled.

Kenneth looked over his shoulder to reply, "I'm coming."

"Kenneth, please, what's a tuna sandwich?"

The man smiled, "will you come to my conference tomorrow?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Becauseㅡ."

"Kenneth," the man interrupted again.

"I said just a secㅡ."

This time the same woman who fetched him at the fair came to whisk him away once more, "Kenneth, everyone's waiting for you."

The man returned his gaze to Monday, "come tomorrow. You'll have your answer then."

Kenneth baited; the mans' behavior pissed off the woman, who crossed her arms in discontent.