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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had decided that she would not go to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro today, no naughty-but-nice things to eat just at the moment; she was already primed to eat healthy things, and she had several juices on the go, plus for breakfast she had some muesli and half of a mango.

Then suddenly she could hear a ruckus down below, she opened her front door, it seemed that a couple of officers were waving a warrant around in one of the lower apartments; it was interesting, but best not to get involved, she thought, in any case petty rules were not for her, as she shut the door, and rather quickly.

She potted around in the living space, as she grinned: primal, she thought, it was a new plant called a Venus fly-trap; she peered closer, aha she beamed, another one caught – excellent!

She went to the tiny kitchen, and quickly washed the dishes, but she glared at that messy thing on the corner; perhaps she should forget about using that juicer, it was so messy and fiddly, and it took forever to clean it.

She went for a rummage in the bedroom – lots of things were under the bed – she pulled everything out and there it was, the useful box and inside was the receipt and the warranty, because by this time, she knew she would never use that juicing thing ever again.

But now she was hungry again, what would she eat… maybe another banana?

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That was very, very odd, thought the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), she was sure that she had written a small piece about the Stream-of-Consciousness, but there’s nothing on her laptop – but how could it be? – more than odd, but she decided to do something different today, she would go to one of the markets not far from here.

But before anything else she would have to put her two bin bags out, as she mused as she lugged down those many stairs, maybe she could reform herself a little bit: for example, she could lay off some of that coffee and chocolate, and even that lovely wine, but not quite yet, as she grinned to herself.

All that finished, she strided off to decide where she was going, since she knew some of the best places to go now, as she looked around in that neighbourhood.

She passed the wedding shop – not for her she knew, as she crossed the street and then walked around the corner; where there seemed to be a celebration, and then she clicked, it was the Cinco de Mayo.

She continued over a couple of streets before finding herself in the particularly good market – with lots of art, crafts, vinyl, gorgeous vintage clothes, and all kinds of bric-a-brac stuff, but what to buy, she thought; but then she couldn’t decide.

There were several food emporiums around, and all looking very nice, but as usual she decided to go over to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro for lunch.

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p.s.
So that’s where it when! Who knew? That red-headed writer was very confused. But, at least she’d found it. So that’s alright. That Stream of Consciousness, hmm, it was very strange.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been a bit rattled in the deep night yesterday; she had almost lost the plot as she had continued to write furiously on her laptop, but at least this morning she was feeling much better, particularly since she had been fortified with her breakfast in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro just now.

She was very keen to show this to Deborah, but la Raconteuse still needed to read back again, since she wanted to make sure what she had written was as good as she could; she knew that the lovely librarian would be perfectly happy to be callous as she explained how it could be better – otherwise, what would be the point?

A final read would be all she’d need, so she settled down in her usual booth, while she put her phone to charge on her laptop, as she started to read again.

She picked up her big bag, waved a hand as she left, then almost ran up the three steps, but then she stopped… dead; she stared in the distance, something suddenly had confused her, but then she continued to walk again – everything would be fine.

Soon she had arrived in the excellent library, as she hurried to the counter to where one of the librarians appeared, a young man, she’d asked for Deborah but what a blow; alas, there was no Deborah, there had never been a Deborah, but how can that be?

Did she just make it up… everything… really?

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had only been in this apartment for just over a month now, and the lease was pretty generous in this neighbourhood, she was able to stay there for a year, or even three years, if she wanted to, and she does… very much so.

The place had been renovated several years ago, mostly by a master builder, she’d met him – nice man, she remembered; she was just about to leave, taking her various things with her, but then she thought she should water her plant, it was an aster –pretty and showy, all those little purple flowers, and it was still alive, rather a miracle.

Then done, she locked the front door and began to walk down all those stairs, and as usual she stopped half-way, looking up and down, and this time she thought about those handsome walls, off-cream, and meticulous, those wonderful plasterers must have worked very hard.

She turned to look out at the other buildings and then to the river beyond, since she would always yearn for any large river which flowed out to the ocean.

She’d been thinking about what she’d written over the last week, and she was fairly pleased about that at the moment.

But before anything else she needed some strong coffee, and maybe a bagel; so she began to walk quickly, since it was always better to be sitting in one of those tables in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, where the most helpful people are there.

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Deborah, the top professional librarian, was in business now, she was able to stay after hours for as long as she wanted, this was not the most important public library in New York, but it was pretty good.

She had put on her oversize smock (almost like she was an artist), and also her thick socks, to keep her feet warm; she had her pince-nez on her nose, plus her handy magnifying glass, and now she would be precise and detailed as she would look at that map.

Deborah had been to many places around the world, from most of North America and much of the south of Europe, and also parts of North Africa, but nothing had haunted her as much as Alexandria in Egypt, that wonderful Great Library.

It was late but she was getting very close, even though that map was still slipping and sliding around; she’d looked up as she heard several people talking loudly, revellers she realised, and she thought one of them was the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), in fact, she was sure about that.

Earlier, Deborah had been skimming through the two most recent novels written by the red-headed writer, both of them were set in Africa; and now Deborah suddenly put two and two together…

There was a map of the seas on the boat in that latest novel, and look at that… almost the same on the table just here, in fact, they are the same: oh my, what a shock!

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