If we were having coffee I’d be coming straight from the gym. We’ve met up here as it’s a bit of a mutual meeting point, this cafe is within walking distance of the gym for me (I have slightly wobbly legs so it’s good not to walk too far) and you don’t live all that far away.
I’ve sequestered myself in a table at the far back and I have my headphones on. I’m editing a story, and that’s all you see as you approach. My pages are covered in red ink, thin margins nearly ribboned with tiny annotations. You make a joke about pages bleeding as you sit down and that’s the first time I notice you.
I hate having to do this but I ask you to repeat yourself because these headphones are superb at canceling out background noise. You’re patient but I can see you eyeing the story with interest – I cover the pages as much as I can, dripping coffee all over in the process, and now you really look interested.
I’d tell you about the last story I finished, and pause to scribble a new idea on a napkin even as I’m talking. I have a notepad tucked away in a handbag somewhere just covered with ideas, lists and sublists and still none of them keep me organized.
You’re making an observation about what I could do with all these stories. Well, you’re not far wrong.