I picked up my notebook and buried myself in my doodles and snippets, resenting that I had to defend the quality of my name to a guy who could have found work as a badly dressed scarecrow.

Minutes passed in silence and I reabsorbed myself in the scene; I forgot to be angry, forgot Stanley was there.

I jumped when he spoke.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked, leaning forward, book off to one side.

Oh good, I thought. My paycheck.

"Sure," I said, leaning towards him.

Stanley looked left, then right, then leaned forward even more.

"I’m a vampire."

I sat back and hoped my face portrayed a look of "you gotta be kidding me", but instead I probably looked like a stunned carp. In my shock, I said the first thing that came to my mind.

"Well, that explains the shirt. You can’t see yourself in the mirror."

Stanley laughed, a weird combination of a whinny and a snort.

"Oh no, I can see myself. I’ve just got a weak spot for them." Stanley smoothed down the front of his shirt. "They’re hideous but fun, like me."

"I didn’t figure vampires wore anything but black. Or went out in the sun to drink iced coffee and read-" I looked at his paperback "-Nora Roberts."

Stanley waved a hand dismissively.

"When in Rome."

"Oh, you’d never have been invited to the orgies wearing that."

Stanley laughed again. "I know, I know."

I couldn’t help myself; I leaned towards him again.

He had me hooked. My gift was really paying off now. There was a great story in this.

"Okay, so fess," I said. "If you’re a vampire, why aren’t you skulking around like Bela Lugosi or one of those weird goth kids that bartends in the dark and drinks his girlfriend’s blood in a basement night club?"

"I don’t like clichés."

I laughed. "I thought those were the rules."

"Rules are for other people."

Stanley sat back and picked up his book, conversation over. I was perplexed; once someone started talking to me, they didn’t stop until all of their guts were on the floor or I cried uncle. I considered the possibility that Stanley was running me up while I drew stick figures with fangs and bad hair.

In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. Amongst the doodles, I jotted down the conversation, making sure to note the arrogance and charm wrapped in the dweeb exterior. Truth or not, a bad Hawaiian shirt was a great disguise for a vampire and excellent material for a book series.

"Maisie, would you like to have dinner with me?"

My pen went wild and my amateur artist’s rendition of Stanley’s Hawaiian shirt was ruined. I forgot he was there. Again.

I looked up at Stanley. He was smiling, but I saw no fangs.

"I’d give you indigestion," I replied.

"Is that a no?" Stanley asked.

"No, just some warning about putting my neck on the menu," I said. I shut my notebook. "Where do you want to go?"