(non)-/Fiction

I like to stare at strangers and wonder what they are thinking. Like the guy at that table who keeps opening the front cover of his book and closing it. He's done it four times so far. He couldn't possibly get any information out of that front cover, can he? So why does he keep doing it? What is he thinking? Who is he?
{Non-fiction}He scratches his temple, staring intently at his blank notebook paper. The pencil skims across the surface, performing a symbolic dance of education and learning. The papers shift, and the eraser removes all darkness on the page. He taps his pencil impatiently and begins flipping through his binder. Page one, page 17, page 42, page 40. He scratches his arm and looks around the room. Maybe someone will save him from this mediocre Saturday in the library. He looks back at his sheet and wonders what to do next. Page 28. His smooth brown hair forms to fit the crevices of his fingers as he rubs his scalp. Understanding the material is the main goal. He turns to the book and opens the front cover. He doesn't know where to go, what to look for. He closes it. He shields his eyes from the rest of the library as the silent people-watchers type through the silence, tip tap tip. The typer's friend attempts to gain attention only to be replied by "shh." The student looks to see what the ruckus happening to his left is about, and turns back to his page. He works the pencil back and forth, noticing mistakes and erasing them, writing more. The front cover of the book now remains open. He sniffs sadly. He isn't sick, but the phrase 'bored to tears' had to have come from somewhere. {fiction}He grabs the water bottle out of his backpack, looking around to see if the 'no drink' policy would be enforced. He never really understood why a policy like that would be made anywhere. People need water, and it seems like such a silly rule to enforce. He looks back towards the book, searching for the answer. With or without the correct solution, he must go on. He looks around the room one more time, maybe someone will notice him, maybe someone will take him away from this, the library, his Saturday night. Maybe he will finish in time to ask the brunette at the checkout desk what time she gets out, have a coffee, share some dialogue. His head begins racing in all different directions, skewed by previous experience and unknown hope. He shakes his head back and forth as if he could shake the thoughts as a wet bitch shakes off water. Finally giving up, he begins to pack his things. He closes the book, organizes his notes, fills his backpack and raises to his feet. He looks around one last time for somebody like him, somebody who would rather sit down and talk than study in stuffy scenery, a claustrophobic cavern of books and brains. He flees the scene and does not look back. He winks at the brunette on his way out.


Ew, what a horrible ending I gave that... I can do better, but I'm pretty tired... and kind of bored with my character. He's boring. I didn't get anything from him, but he just sharpened his pencil and flipped it into his hands before sitting down. I could have used that, but now I'm leaving. What an asshole.