no paper, no editor, no mocha, no muffin, no boobs, no book and no lady

I’ve always wanted to walk into a coffee shop and sit down with my laptop order an iced mocha, blueberry muffin and type away an article touching on non-issue issues like why men will date ladies with short hair or maybe why single mum’s are the best women to date, marry and have kids with. I want to type away on my keyboard forgetting to sip on the muffin and arbitrarily munching on the mocha. Wait?

I’d have my phone lying face down on a mat set to silent avoiding distractions from the editor who hates how close I cut deadlines. He hates my guts, or maybe it’s a she, she hates my guts. She doesn’t like my attitude, or hairstyle, or how loudly I hit the keyboard when I’m in the office, or my detached look in a cream sweater and a blue polo but she loves my copy. She need it and like any dangerous relationship she keeps coming back, putting up with my shit and leaving her neck on the line to save my god forsaken ass.

I’d start typing my introduction and get distracted by the sound of the coffee grinder. I’d look around the room and notice a lady with her cleavage showing a little more than it should and I’d think that’d be the best way to start my article. I love cleavage, like any other man does, maybe a bit less. It doesn’t help when you live in a city where it’s shoved in your face day in day out. You’ve seen them all – from the ones that defy gravity to the ones that obey all its whims. The sound of the grinder brings your attention back – you need to start writing.

The ice in your mocha is melting and the glass is sweating. The lady is reading a book in the solace of her booth. Maybe you want to write about her – title it boobs and books. But you don’t like the sound of that so you go on and stare at your blank screen and blinking cursor trying to come up with something that will grab the readers’ attention – something that is not boobs. You put your hand on your laptop and lower the lid and scan the room. It’s not full, people are sparsely dotted across the room. It’s only 2 in the afternoon. You take another sip of your mocha and let it marinate in your mouth. Iced caffeine – it’s such a strange concept. You imagine what your grandmother would say about it.

Half an hour later your page is still blank. You pick up your phone and the editor has been furiously calling. Thirteen missed calls and four irate messages are pending. Wherever she is she is furious. You only have another half hour to go. She probably thinks you went out last night – you did – and are passed out in your house. So she calls and calls until you finally decide to answer.

“What the eff Shad!”

“Calm down it’s done. The internet is shitty.” You lie

“You better not be… arrgh… send it ASAP”

“I will. The kids?” You ask because you know she has kids and ladies love when you ask after them.

“They’re fine thanks for asking.” She says “and go to an effing cyber if you have to Shad!” she screams as the line goes dead.

You look around and decide you might as well write about boobs and books. You turn it into some form of sapiosexual versus heterosexual debate. You have it done in ten minutes, do a quick spell check and send it off to the editor. It wasn’t really much of a debate, the heterosexual man only had two points – boobs. But you know your readers. Those are the only two points that count – well other than the three a certain team won against a certain team. Happy with yourself and content you finish off your mocha and get up to leave. The lady? She is still reading her book her mug possibly horribly cold by now. You like her resilience and the intent with which she reads. You could see her brows arch and little lines form on her forehead as she followed the plot through. You could notice the twitch at the corner of her mouth threatening to form a smile. You were amused by her complete indulgence in the book. You would want to say hi, but such moments are sacred, moments of intimacy between a writer and his reader. You walk away thinking what kind of intimacy you share with a reader – but – this was all in your imagination. There’s no paper, no editor, no mocha, no muffin, no boobs, no book and no lady.