Writer’s Life

She sipped her coffee while her mind threatened to burst from the burden of too many thoughts. She stopped each thought with a question for herself. Was this the way the plot should proceed? Or should she just write something else for a change? The taste of coffee healed her mind immediately. She smiled. Her fingers got busy on the keyboard. The thoughts filled her pages now.

No Agreement

Disagreement was normal. “We certainly can’t agree on everything,” she said. Her soon-to-be ex-friend thought otherwise. She formed her lips into an ugly frown. Her eyes turned darker than coal. “If we think differently, how can we be best friends.” It wasn’t really a question. They continued sipping their mochas. The others in the cafe could hear the coffee’s path in each body. “I think we should talk later,” she said. The former friend disagreed.

All the Maybes

Maybe they could share some sandwiches in the cafe. Perhaps they could eat spoonfuls of cheesecake without worrying about what the other thought. Either way, they had the luxury of time and a sunny afternoon. Maybe they would talk about the years gone. Or they would avoid that topic completely. Everything would be alright if the aroma of coffee was pleasing enough.

Different Tastes

He wanted butter. She wanted cheese spread. He liked his coffee full of pearly white sugar cubes. She preferred the blackest of teas. Today, they wanted to try new things. He had what she liked and she had what he had been having since he was a college kid. “Eek!” He missed the sweetness of his breakfast. “How do you manage to digest this every day!” She gulped down orange juice. The waitress saved the day when she shoved two menu cards between them.

A writer’s trance

She turned the pages slowly, methodically. She looked at each letter and replayed every syllable. Her own words ran through her mind. Her thoughts were interrupted by her careful reading. Chapters one to five had been written when she was living the life of her childhood dreams. The next three chapters were painfully typed out while she had nothing but her book to look forward to. As she continued to read and re-live, her mother stood a few feet away with her steaming cup of coffee, scared to interrupt. Breaking her trance would kill her.

Walking away (Part II)

She sat in Barista with her laptop, typing away with concentration framing her forehead and lips. Two coffee stained cups sat on the table. One thousand words later, she closed the laptop and paid the bill. She walked outside into the humid evening, planning to walk straight home. Then she saw him strolling by – and he wasn’t alone. He was laughing lightly and holding her hand. The girl was pretty. In that split second, she forgot how good she had felt a minute before, with all those words poured out onto the Word document. She walked away.