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If we were to have coffee, I’d want it to be at a quaint coffee shop. It would be one of those places off the main drag that probably only has about ten to fifteen tables scattered around within its four walls.
(Your dialogue is in purple. My dialogue is in green.)
I’ve ordered our coffee and have been sitting here for a while. The shop isn’t crowded today, which is surprising seeing it’s a holiday weekend. Of course, I’m not expecting many to sit at the tables. I just had it in my head there’d be more here requesting coffee to go. Chances are the reservoir seven miles outside of town is already filling up with campers, day trippers, fishermen, and the such.
I spot you walking through the door. Your face is flushed and it looks like your Capris are sticking to your legs.
Do you want anything else?
The man is polite but I wouldn’t categorize him friendly. The mugs are full but there isn’t a basket of goodies.
The waitresses must have the day off. Owners like him should never serve customers.
You hunch over the table slightly as if you’ve been working in the coal mines or something. I nod at your comment as I add some Hazelnut creamer to my coffee.
Is it that hot out there already? When I came in here, the breeze was cool.
No, it’s still okay out there. My inner thermostat isn’t working for some strange reason.
Hot flashes! I thought you were done.
So did I. Subject change–how’s your writing coming along?
Something’s bugging you but, obviously, you aren’t going to let it out.
I wish I knew why I get bored with a project so easily. And it isn’t because it gets a little difficult. Sometimes those are my most creative moments. Maybe I don’t reach far enough for the story idea.
You take a tentative sip of your coffee. The grimace look appears on your face and you grab three sugar packets from the small rack next to the napkin holder.
We need to find another coffee shop for holiday weekends. This sucks. Okay, how do you reach for a story?
I take several sips while I formula how to explain.
I usually find my story ideas in real life. Often the idea is about someone I know well–a relative or a good friend.
Your eyes double in size. Your mug is slightly tipped towards your mouth but you suspend it there in midair.
You’re writing stories about me?
Not yet. I always switch out names, a couple of the physical and personality traits, and the situation doesn’t end the way it did or would (possibly) in real life. If I was to use you as a character, the chances of you knowing it are slim to none.
Aren’t you afraid of lawsuits?
There isn’t any proof of using anything of a real person, so no–no fear.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. I can see the giant question mark presence coming into your eyes as your mouth pulls down at the sides while looking into your mug.
What is it?
This coffee is disgusting. Do you even do stories about yourself?
You seize still two more sugar packs, open them, and dump the content into your mug. My coffee is getting cold and the flavor is, as you said, disgusting. I fold my arms on the table.
Sure, I use myself. In fact, I have an unfinished story on a virtual shelf in my online cloud. The main character is basically me but with starts with circumstances I’d much rather be in than what I have in real life. It’s been sitting a while now. Now that I write more like I want, I should probably pull it down and work on it again. The thing is I don’t want to spread myself out too thin taking on too many writing projects. I’m afraid I won’t finish any of them.
Another silent moment separates our thoughts. I’m disappointed in the number of longings I’ve had that haven’t reach to accomplishment in my life. I can’t call many of them failures because they can still be realized. They’re unaccomplished dreams. Got to get off this subject.
What’s going on in your life these days?
My bike is finally fixed. On Monday I’m in that race that starts at the park. It isn’t a sponsored one, just one to begin the season I guess. And get this! I’m painting.
Expectation of reaction spills over your face.
I assume it’s the kind of painting that goes on canvas. I didn’t know you were into art.
I’ve wanted to try it for a while now, but until the kids were more on their own, the time just wasn’t there. I paid twenty dollars for a course at the recreation center. It goes through the basics of color, perception, and creativity. I didn’t know there were so many colors in a cloud before.
I try not to grin. I took some art classes in school. I remember being surprised by brown being in clouds.
How much are your supplies costing you?
They offered those dinky little tubs of color, a set costing twenty-seven dollars. I went for it. Was that a good price?
You probably could have gotten it for cheaper but you’d have to know where to shop. For this first time, you probably did the right thing.
I bought two brushes too. The teacher said I’d need more eventually but I could wait until I sign up for the second course.
Are you thinking about that already?
You gulp your coffee down making a glowering expression.
Yeh, I am. I like the way my clouds look. It’s just a hobby but you never know.
I need to get. Need to freshen up for the class. I’ll pay on the way out.
I almost take a sip of coffee but catch myself in time and place the mug on the table. I watch you at the cashier stand. My guess is you’re complaining about the yucky coffee. Good, that means I don’t have to say anything.
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“You must give everything to make your life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in your imagination.” ― Roman Payne