Living on Writer's Block

An ice machine hums. Cracks. The hum quiets to a lower rattle while a fan drones on.

A buzz clicks on and stays on while arrhythmic thumping echoes from the room on the other side of the wall to my right.

The arms of my wooden chair press into my arms and I feel my right pinky tingling from the prolonged position.

On the sticky green tabletop sits a deck of red bicycle cards, a black paper cup full of tea, and a lamp with a worn grey shade. 

The humming drones on.

The thumping stops and the buzz clicks off, replaced by the sound of running water.

Something hot is in the next room, buttery, handmade, and setting my belly grumbling.

No, I have not yet had breakfast.

I sit beside a large metal sign with the name of a coffee shop and the year ‘2001’ welded to the bare frame. 

My stomach is grumbling again as another buzzer goes off.

My thumbs are slow to describe the world around me at this moment. 

Red bead board runs halfway up the walls, broken by brown molding and the wall above that is smooth and yellow as it has always been.

This is a place I remember.

This is a place I will always remember.

It is older than me, by about four years. 

My parents went on dates here. 

I know of a place in the front where they would sit and do crosswords in the paper on jazz nights here. 

I know of a place in the brick where the names of countless other patrons, singly and in couples, has been written up before me.

Someday perhaps I will join someone here and perhaps we will add our names to that stone — if the owner allows it. 

And perhaps we will do crosswords, but I doubt it. Jazz nights are too crowded for me. 

I reach up, stretch my arm, give it a break from typing, to take a sip of my tea. My lipstick leaves a stain on the white lid. I look at it for a moment, my eyes flicking up to the lamp behind the cup. 

On the lamp there is stuck a magnet. The magnet is rectangular and has a photo of flowers. I think they were cut for the picture because they are too close together to believably be in a field together, and there’s too much variety between the sunflowers and sugar snap peas to all fit in that space comfortably.

The slats on the back of my chair press between my shoulder blades. My coat slid down when I leans forward to look at the magnet to check which flowers were on it, and when I leaned back the chair was cold. 

I will not move.

I am comfortable.

I am writing.

And writing has always pleased me. 

Capturing a moment, capturing my thoughts, as I have them, as I think them, capturing the world around me in bursts as I drift in and out of full awareness of my surroundings, is a delightful thing to me. 

The buttery, warm smell of baked pastry beckons again to my growling belly but I am flat broke and so I will not go and buy food. 

My tea will suffice.

I take another sip.

My shoulder twinges when I raise my arm.

I hold the warm tea to capture the flavor but I am too busy writing. I forget and swallow and smile when I remember again. 

I take another sip and this time I will remember to describe it.

Sweet. Rich. Creamy. A faint bitterness comes through the softer flavors and I have to take a moment to think of it. 

Another sip. Hold it again. 

I do not know how to describe this flavor, if I’m at all honest. It’s full. Warm. If it had a color it would be an autumnal red, dark, maybe like the red bead board on the wall beside me. 

I fall short with normal words to describe flavors. I often resort to colors if I have to get deeper than “it tastes like tea.” No circular descriptions for me, not when I can help it. 

I love this place. 

I remember sitting at the long wood tables in the front with my mother as a child, enjoying a slice of chocolate Guinness cake. At the time I just thought “chocolate = yum.” Now I taste the Guinness and I enjoy it more.

Thinking of such cakes makes my mouth water, I will not dwell on it. 

Did I mention the ceiling in this place is teal? Raw wooden beams cross it occasionally, making it feel close and cozy. 

Forgive my inability to stay focused, I am writing my thoughts as I have them. 

My eyes drift to the cards. I have not written about those yet. 

I played with my father a little over an hour ago. He won two out of three of our games. I won only one — my first win in over a month. 

We do this regularly. When I get up on time, that is. It is a good chance to see each other and catch up when our schedules are so different that we barely see each other during the week.

In the room on the other side of the wall on my right, someone is scraping a pan. Water runs. 

The door over my shoulder creaks open. It is a mailman in navy blue with a bag in his hip. 

My sister emerges to comment on my still being here. She laughs when she sees what I am writing and pushes off my chair with a groan and a quick “bye.” 

She works here. She is cute in a black shirt and jeans. She never believes me when I say it.

My belly growls again. I think I need to go home and get some food.