Tag: coffee shop

The Negotiations

Grandma and her granddaughter came into the coffee shop. They’re lovely regulars.

Today, the granddaughter declared, “I want ice cream.”

Grandma said, “No, you can’t have ice cream for lunch.”

“I want ice cream.”

“How ’bout chicken noodle soup?”

The granddaughter pouted. “I want chocolate ice cream.”

“How ’bout if you eat chicken noodle soup first and then you can have a little ice cream?”

“I will have chicken noodle soup and then chocolate ice cream,” the little girl agreed.

They moved to the counter and ordered the soup.

The barista said, “I’m sorry, we’re out of the soup.”

Grandma was amazed. “You’re out of the soup?”

“How ’bout a piece of pizza focaccia bread for lunch?” the barista suggested.

As grandma and her granddaughter agreed, the barista said, “Oh, no. We’re out of focaccia pizza, too.”

“You’re out of the pizza thing, too?” Grandma was amazed.

A breakfast burrito was suggested as a compromise.

No ice cream was ever ordered.

Yet.

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The Discussion

Four women were chatting at a nearby table at the coffee shop. Appearing similar in age to me, two women dominated the talking. One was short and slender, with fair skin and dark, bobbed hair. The other was tanner and smaller. Smiling a lot, her silver hair fell around her shoulders.

They were talking about toothpaste. Looking up from my writing, I tuned in as the first woman said, “I put a pea-sized amount on my brush.”

One of the other women, heavy, with dry brown hair that came to her shoulders, loudly, sharply scoffed. “That’s not enough.”

The first woman replied, “That’s what the directions say to use.”

The brown-haired woman snorted. “Everyone knows you’re supposed to put toothpaste on all the bristles, from one end to the other.”

The conversation fell still for several seconds. “Anyway,” the first woman resumed.

I returned to my writing.  

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The Writing Moment

Breathe in, breathe out.

Sip coffee. Sit. Stare.

Contemplate.

Finished the second pass of the novel in progress, Unfocused. Six zillion words.

Naw. Just felt like it. Only 101K. 485 pages in MS Word.

The usual wars go on in me: finished. Feels good. Is it any good?

What shall I do now?

By that last, I mean, do another editing/revision pass or work on submitting it somewhere.

Other concepts call. A Tribe Called Death is eager to be written. Multitudes.

So, I sit. Sip coffee. Stare.

Contemplate.

Wait for a sign from the coffee shop.

1

It’s Tuesday

Coffee smells landed. I breathed it in.

The barista greeted me from the counter, “Hey, Michael.”

“Hi, Natalie.” I slid my payment over as she wrote up my order.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

An espresso machine hissed. I shrugged. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it.”

She nodded. Natalie loves shouting with a big, lovely grin, “It’s Tuesday, innit?”

Today, she said, “Just two days in and it’s already a burden.”

I smiled. “Too true.”

Natalie began entering the order into the register.

“You have my Co-op number?” I asked.

Her emerald eyes widened. “Five nine nine six?”

Classic rock spilled out of the speakers.

“Bingo,” I shouted.

Natalie and I laughed like maniacs.

“It’s Tuesday, innit?” I asked.

Natalie bent over in laughter. “It’s Tuesday, innit?”

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