Arnold wasn’t much of a name, but it was the one his novelist had dreamt up for him. It was a mug’s name, no two ways about it, and he wanted out from under its influence. Trouble is, you can’t just ignore these things, or refuse to answer to them, because that won’t make them go away. This was an impediment he had been stuck with, and avoidance would only reinforce it. He had first to accept the burden if he wanted to negotiate himself out of it.

So he looked up nervously when the unnamed barista called out, ‘Flat White for Arnold!’ in coarse, stentorian, and undoubtedly foreign, tones, and then repeated, ‘Flat White for Arnold?’ with an interrogative inflection that took some of the sting out of his words. Sure enough, there it was, a paper cup with ‘Arnold’ scrawled on it, vertically in black marker pen, and ‘FW’ underneath, but he’d only just come through the door, and was sure he hadn’t ordered anything. My novelist again, he thought, playing his creator tricks, showing he’s in charge. Well, fuck him. I’m not playing his game.

But he knew he couldn’t go through with it. If he refused to engage, how could he say his piece? On the other hand, he wasn’t giving up that easily. ‘No mate, mine’s a Double Espresso, don’t know where you got the Flat White thing from.’ God, that made him feel good. That would stuff up the edits. He could see the whole episode getting deleted, including the damn silly name. Job done. And he might just have time to neck the short coffee before being crossed off the page altogether.

Meanwhile the novelist has given up mid-sentence because he’s gone on a job search website. Let’s face it, this writing business is a complete pain in th