My hands are wrapped around my coffee. It’s in a to-go cup because I never wanted the mug. I think of my counter composter next to my reusable bag collection, my monthly bus pass, and my goodwill jacket. I never intend to stay, I guess. I never want to be tied down if I decide to go. How are you? You ask.
I look up and smile. I’m always smiling. I always want to be. You look good- happy. Your sweater is new. I know because I saw it in the window of a shop I’ve never been into. I’m good, I say. I take a sip of my coffee. It burns my tongue. How’s school going? I continue.
You smile. You’re not always smiling, so when you do it lights up your face. You place your mug down in front of you. It’s good! You answer. I’m almost done, you continue. You meet my eyes. My eyes stray to the door. I’m publishing a book, you whisper.
I’m still smiling. My hands are wrapped around my cup, barely drank. My eyes are wide. Are you really? I ask. I already know the answer. Your sweater is freshly pressed. I am! I decided why not? We were always writing stories in high school; I figured why not polish one up and publish it?
Your eyes are bright when you answer. My heart is in my throat. I wonder how long my coffee will stay hot. I wonder if my compost needs flipping. That’s amazing! What else is there to say? When will it hit the shelves?
You swallow your sip and place your mug down again. It looks like you’re halfway done. I guess coffee isn’t as hot in a mug. Probably in October next year- It’s such an arduous process. Of course, I’ll give you one for free, you inspired me after all. Is my smile forced? It feels forced. My eyes are wide, and my smile is forced.
That’s incredible! It really is. I’m so happy for you! I am. I really, really, really am.
Thank you! But enough about me, what are you up to? I’m smiling. My heart is in my throat, my coffee is too hot to drink, and I’m looking at the door. I’m glad I got a to-go cup. Not much. I’m smiling. Still writing. I haven’t gone back to school yet, but I’ve been thinking about it. What else is there to say?
Oh, you’re still writing. That’s great! You’ve always had such a way with words. I don’t even know what I’ll be doing next October. Will I still have compost? Can you put disposable cups in it? You’re still smiling. Your eyes are bright.
Does my smile look forced? Everything’s chill with me. Tell me about this book deal. You finished your coffee sometime while I was talking. You get another one. I wonder how long my coffee is going to stay hot. I look at the door.
About the Creator
The Singer So Shy
She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
By Judah LoVato6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
I agree with all these comments!
Oooo, this was so intriguing! You weaves this together so well!
This really high-lights the inner monologue and how under every conversation there is a second, third and maybe even forth layer to them that not everyone gets to know.
Wow, great work!