Mae was anti-social. She drank too much coffee and smoked too many cigarettes. She never much liked anyone’s dissaproval for her vices either.

She was always alone, and she resented it, even though she loved to protest the company of others. Her greatest companion, of course, was her cat, Kafka, who’s white bits of snowy fur were always clearly noticeable on her uniform black turtlenecks.

Mae wore her sunglasses indoors, and always found a believable explanation of her reasoning, true or not. Excuses were her forte, and she had become so incredibly good at making them up, that it was hard to tell if she was lying or not.

This was why she was such a fascinating writer.

She was so believable.