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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.)
Somehow we arrive at the same time. The last time this happened was months ago. The table we usually sit at is taken. I glance at the other side of the shop seeing a table in the corner against the windows that go along the front of the establishment.
The name on the waitress’s breast pocket is Laci. She’s a slender young woman I would guess to be about twenty-three to twenty-five years old.
May I take your order?
We’re just having coffee.
Laci gives me a questioning look. I nod and smile.
Will be back with them in just a jiffy.
I wonder if she’ll bring a goodie basket. So how are you?
I can’t figure out why we’re getting the special treatment in the first place. My daughter, you know, Rachelle, thinks she should be able to wear whatever makeup she wants. I can’t believe how hideous she looks. She’s a beautiful girl and then there’s that dark green gunk all around her eyes. And she thinks she looks gorgeous.
Remember the black eyeliner we used to wear?
You roll your eyes and frown at me. Yes, you remember but I’m not so sure you wanted to heard that or think my comment is relevant. Sometimes it’s hard to admit your mistakes, I guess
Our coffee is served and Laci did include a basket of mini muffins.
I’ve been informed that you two get a bonus with your coffees.
These look good. Thank you.
We don’t ask why but exchange names with Laci before she get a wave from the boss to get her butt back to the serving window.
If you don’t want Rachelle to wear it, tell her not to. Or did she get sneaky and ask permission before showing you the makeup?
You heave a sign and dump the three sugars in your mug.
She has my permission. I know I can take it back but I’m hoping one of her friends tell her how awful it looks. I have to give her a little space to grow up, you know.
Yes, I do know. Change of subject–well, kind of anyway. It’s still about personal space. I’m finally going to do something about my work space at home. It’s okay the way it is but I always feel as if it’s shared space.
I can see the imaginary question mark on your face as you nibble on a poppy-seed muffin. I peer into the basket looking for something good to catch my eye. Oh ah! I pick one of the cranberry ones and take a miniature bite.
You feel as if you’re sharing the space? You ARE sharing it with your husband.
Yes, but he isn’t there when I’m working on the book. He’s at work. If I could have one of those dividers or even a curtain, I think it would be better. However, that would mean rearranging the entire room, including the shelves attached to the wall. That would mean repainting the walls on to of it all.
All of that could be done within one weekend.
I guess, but I’ve decided not to do any of that in order to keep the marriage boat on gentle waters, if you know what I mean. Instead, I’m going to re-stain my desk so it looks more like drift wood and not so orangey. It’s getting pitted and needs the staining done anyway. I’m going to have dear husband put a shelf up above my PC screen for all that cable garbage so it’s off my desk. And I’m going to swivel the TV stand I use for the printer around so that it kind of acts like a mini peninsula between my space and his.
I watch you as you take all of this in. You looking someplace where there’s a wall for everyone else. I can only assume your picturing what I’ve described. We take nibbles of our second muffins simultaneously.
You don’t want to divide that window between you, do you?
I smile with mouth closed as I chew.
You need your own space, you know. Yet, I know what your money situation is so… it’ll help a little–maybe.
What’s that suppose to mean?
You look at me with soulful eyes. I’m baffled by the expression I see.
Okay, spill it.
You didn’t sign up for all the heartache you’ve taken on. Why do you keep on trying so hard?
Everyone has heartaches. You, of all people, know that. I try because if I don’t, I’m giving up. I’ve tried that many times. I don’t do that well at all. I scrutinize my options, sometimes have to play meeny, miney moe with them, and keep on trying to forge on forward. Welcome to real life.
You shake your head and drink the little bit of coffee still in your mug. I hale Laci to get a refill. You place your cup next to mine.
So do you really think I should let Rach keep her hideous look?
Sure. She’s a good kid. She’ll see herself eventually and change it. I have a niece who put blue streaks in her hair last summer. This summer she gone two-tone, platinum blonde and carrot red. She looks ridiculous but she’s still my niece. I figure she’s creating space between herself and her mom.
More coffee arrives. We go through our routine with the add-ons and take careful sips of the burning hot liquid. The French vanilla is hidden by the burning sensation.
I suppose the carrot red is on one side and the blond on the other?
No. She has that white blond in front, which looks out of place with her skin tone, and the carrot stuff on the back side.
Neither of us can hold it in. We laugh hardily out loud.
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I know quite certainly that I myself have no special talent; curiosity, obsession and dogged endurance, combined with self-criticism have brought me to my ideas. Albert Einstein