The waiting is over: excerpt of my new novel

Hello, you

So, if I don't fight dangerous Green Iguanas, or edit other people's manuscripts, I write. Mainly about life, because it gives me many subjects to write about. People told me that it mirrors in my books as I'm pretty observant. My new book, which I dare to call literary fiction, is different to what I've done so far, but I love a challenge and I took it when this idea forced itself onto me.

I've been asked many times what my new book is about. Well, it's difficult to explain. There are only a handful of people who read all 14,500 words I have so far and the response was overwhelming. Gosh, does this feel good.

I thought it would be okay to share an excerpt. It's not long, but should give you guys an overview what I'm working on at the moment. I do enjoy this style and genre, though it takes a little longer to write. It's worth it.

Enjoy.

Not sure where it all came from, but reading those exchanges triggered your desire to go out and have some company. Though it's late, you know a place that is open till late in the morning. You shut down the computer and depart.
Fifteen minutes later, you arrive. When you enter, the owner looks up from the newspaper he's reading. You nod into his direction and take a seat at the bar. He pours you a scotch. Even if you don't come often, he knows your drink.
You never speak to each other. Since the one evening you drank far too many, it's not necessary. He wouldn't start a conversation, neither would you. That particular event showed you have no common ground and you ended up being frustrated about having had to explain every statement.
It's quiet in here, you think. Unusual for today. A glance around counts nine people, including you and the barman. A girl sits by herself in the corner, reading. Her red bob frames her countenance, making her strong features look like a piece of art.
As if she feels your stare, she lifts her head. In the dimmed light you can't make out the title, but the fact that she sits here alone on a Friday night, holding a book, makes her attractive enough.
She smiles at you. Her far too perfect lips reveal a set of white teeth. You know it's rude, but you can't hold her gaze. Ashamed, you look away. Your glass is not telling you any stories. When you take a sip, you sense her eyes scanning each inch of your body.
Another sip. It feels warm, comfortably warm. Slow, but confident footsteps on the wooden floor. You listen carefully, your grip tightens. Five, six, seven, eight. Then, they stop. The scent of flowery, expensive perfume penetrates your nostrils.
'You are waiting for someone?' she asks. Her voice surprises. It is nothing like you thought it would be. Much deeper – not displeasing, though. A faint accent gives away she is not a native. It sounds inviting. You shake your head in response to her question.
'Would you mind me sitting here?' Without waiting for an answer she lays down her book and takes a seat. Its author is no-one foreign to you. A well-known philosopher – your favourite one. You try to hide your excitement. This will be interesting.