Feather Quill in an Ink Pot

Ernest stared at his watch; the second hand slowly, tediously made its way around the face. What was taking so long? He gazed across the turbulent river of noise and steel that was Second Street, picking absent mindedly at a spot of loose paint on the bus stop bench where he sat. He was anxiously waiting for something, but it wasn't a bus.

I'm not feeling very creative today...