Write What You Know

The heels of her tall boots made soft clicking sounds against the smooth, uneven pavement. Winter was drawing near. More leaves piled into mountains at her feet than remained on the trees. She couldn’t help but admire the opulence of it all.

The heavy coat wrapped around her frame was an extravagant gown. So beyond anything she would ever find cause to wear.

The sharp winds pulled her hair up and twisted it into an elegant updo.

Even the very air took note of her presence, becoming visible, bending and spiraling into elaborate patterns. Dancing with her every breath.

So it wouldn’t be out of the question to assume that she was in very high spirits as she tramped along her golden pathway on the way to what could only be a monumental day.

Rounding the corner she slipped her hand out of her pocket and into the frigid day to absentmindedly stroke the corner of the building as she neared her destination.

Two doors down was the Cafe.

She was fairly certain it had some whimsical French name.

Probably.

Most likely.

But it didn’t matter, she knew it as the cafe and spoke of it that way to anyone worthy of mentioning it to.

As she stood with one hand resting on the uneven stone she knew that there was no reasonable excuse to be standing in the cold staring at the future.

But somehow it didn’t feel right to let the moment pass without some quiet reflection.

With a quick glance in the reflection of a shoemaker's shop she yanked her fingers through the knotted sections of her hair and moved on down the street.

By the time her hand touched the cool metal of the door handle her heart was beating in her ears. With a tug she was enveloped in sudden warmth, soft jazz music, and the inviting smells of warm meals. With one large step she was finally there.

She felt his eyes following her from some unseen corner of the room  in an instant but made no move to acknowledge him.

Stepping up to the bar she came eye to eye with a tall imposing man. His coarse, bushy beard consumed most of his face but left just enough room for two scrutinizing eyes to peer out.

“Aren’t you a little rugged to be wearing an apron?” she quipped, the corner of her painted lips raising ever so slightly.

“Aren’t you a little small to be picking fights?” He chuckled and his whole demeanor melted in to absolute sweetness with one smile. His name was Ewan and he had owned the cafe for nearly a decade and had been working there long before that. He belonged behind that counter with his sweet smile and big beard and she had always thought so.

Every place has a story and a feeling and he contributed to the life of the cafe she loved so dearly.

It took all of five minutes to order her coffee and catch up with Ewan before she was looking around the space for a quiet table to inhabit until some other adventure came along.

He was sitting at a table near the window with a tea set and an empty plate in front of him. Their eyes collided violently and for the first time since entering the cafe her heart stuttered in its incessant pounding.

She wasn’t a weak in the knees kind of girl.

She never had been, and there was evidence to prove it.

Richard Boyd at the ripe old age of 6 decided that she was worth his wooing and presented her with a suspicious coffee can during recess one day. Now to anyone with foresight the roughly made holes in the lid would have been a solid indicator that trouble was afoot.

Though learning is from experience I suppose.

She must have screamed at him so loudly her pigtails rose in fury in the aftermath.

He had spent 3 hours in the riverbottom the day before, working desperately to grab the largest toad in the county for the object of his affections. However, learning is from experience and this was before she learned that it was the thought that counted.

The next suitor was Karl Anderson, a strapping young lad at the age of 13. Karl considered himself to be quite the poet. Most of the girls in their year agreed with him. Which is why she found it quite wasteful when he turned his attentions towards her. The onslaught of crumpled papers passed in her direction through the perspiring teenage hands of every one of their classmates was somehow not as romantic as Karl must have pictured it through his rose tinted glasses.

It was somewhere between the tenth time he compared her eyes to honey and the third time her hair was likened to burnt wheat that she sent back a simple response.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m begging please stop, I don't like you.

17 year old Adam Phillips painted a sign declaring his affection and posted it outside the school. Elizabeth Martin said it was simply the most romantic thing she had ever seen. She gushed about how she couldn’t believe any of their cohorts would have the capacity to devise such a gesture. Elizabeth thought Adam made the sun rise and convinced her that she should consider herself lucky. So she dove into a short lived romance that never made her heart stutter.

She didn’t ever go weak in the knees, but on that day, in that moment, the idea of having a seat looked very appealing.

She chose a table one away from his and shrugged off her coat.

She felt vulnerable in that moment. As if she was gleefully shirking of armor before marching into battle. But she wasn’t storming a castle. She was having a coffee.

She took one swig from the mug, ignoring the burn that turned her tongue numb and left her throat raw. She was too focused on maintaining her casual appearance.

Was her hair tangled? Did her cheeks and lips look beautifully blushed with the cold or was she chapped and pale?

Suddenly the ethereal princess of autumn felt overwhelmingly humbled.

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out an old leather bound journal and took a moment to run her fingers in distrait patterns across the cover as if it was a security blanket.

Before she could do anything else she heard the low scratching sound of the teapot being dragged across her observers table. Without thinking she glanced up and began her own observation. She noted that his long pale fingers were almost elegant wrapped around the handle as he poured another cup for himself. His dark hair fell in a curtain across his forehead and his barely visible five o’clock shadow gave him a kind of distinction that she couldn’t help but admire. He had a similar journal lying open on the table near where his elbow was propped up. Her eyes had just trailed up the line of his forearm to admire his mouth before she noticed the piercing blue gaze just above it.

She had been caught red handed but there was no way he would be granted the satisfaction of her backing down or pretending to be bashful.

He was art and she was admiring and that was all there was to it.

Holding his gaze she took another scalding swig from the mug.

He simply raised an eyebrow in response.

With a huff she set about gathering her things and shimmied through the chairs, without so much as a glance up she plopped herself into the chair across from him.

“You’re a writer” she stated rather than asking, her middle finger lazily tracing around the rim of the mug.

“Yes. I am.” His lips twitched.

“And what are you writing?”

“A story.” he said before raising the teacup to his lips. It took her a moment to realize he was ending his answer there. She rolled her eyes and tilted her head back ever so slightly for a moment before turning her attention back to him.

“Naturally. Elaborate.”

“You’re quite demanding.”

There wasn’t any malice in his words. He offered an amused smile and moved his other elbow to rest on the table, leaning in without thinking about it. He looked at her in a way that she couldn’t quite process. Like he could see everything there was to see and yet he still wanted to know more. She was being judged in a way, but she was pleased about it and desperately hoped she wasn't found wanting.

“Yes. I am.” Her lips twitched. The nerves from before began to melt away, and they spent a moment lost in the feeling of being together. “Elaborate.” She whispered, hardly noticing the word slipping from her lips.

“It’s a story about purpose. Meaning in this world. It’s about religion, and God, and death, and futility.” He paused and scrutinized her for a moment. She could feel his eyes almost caressing every freckle on her face. “It’s about love.” he finally settled on. Seeming satisfied enough with his words.

“Well you’ve certainly packed an awful lot in there. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to write what you know?”

He grinned. And reached a hand up to tug through his hair bashfully. And she thought he had an almost boyish charm that shouldn’t be possible for a grown man, it wasn’t fair.

“Someone has told me that before actually. It’s not completely foreign. I know some of it quite well.”

“Like what?” She leaned back, breaking the bubble they had created around their little table. She stretched her arms out on the table and rested her left palm flat against the wood before grabbing the warm porcelain of her mug in the right. She began looking for designs in the lines of the rough hardwood table.

“Love”

She brought her eyes back to his for just a moment before going back to the crooked lines with more interest than they deserved. “Oh yeah? You’ve been in love?

“Just once.”

She could imagine what he must have looked like when he said that. Head tilted down to watch her, lips pulled slightly up in the corners. He had intensely expressive eyes and affection was surely a beautiful shade to see them in.

“Tell me about her.”

“I will, but you have to tell me, have you ever been in love?”

She scoffed and smiled.

“I think so.”

“You’re not sure?” Incredulity suited him too well and it made her want to roll her eyes and smile and say something devastatingly witty to impress him. However, nothing came to mind, so she had to make due with what was available.

“Well that seems like the kind of thing that requires introspection before declaring. How can I possibly know for sure if you’re pestering me before I can think?”

He laughed and glanced out the window for a moment before composing himself and turning back to her. “That’s fair.”

“So tell me about her.”

“Of course.”

He paused to think, his hand absentmindedly reaching up to grasp his jaw his fingers ran along the barely there stubble before he took a deep breath and began speaking.

“She was boisterous, and sarcastic, and proud, and tenacious.”

She cut him off, “She sounds like a handful.”

He grinned, “She is. But she’s loyal. And beautiful. And she speaks how she feels and I feel how she does.” he looked back out the window for a moment, reaching down to grasp his cup. She had thought he was going to take a drink when he looked up at her and spoke again, “Tell me about him.”

“Oh? He’s. Well, where to start?” She threw her arm over the back of the chair and tipped it back precariously. “He’s ridiculous. And romantic. And pig headed. He’s generous, good, affectionate, and too verbose for his own good. He makes me smile. And he gives me something to work towards. All my dreams revolve around him.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” She rose back up to her elbows and leaned into their world again. He had never left at all.

“What do you write about?”

He nodded his head at her little leather journal and she smiled and traced her finger over the cover for a moment before leaning back to slip it in to the pocket of her coat.

“A bit of everything I suppose. Futility, death, the future.”

He chuckled quietly at her gentle teasing. “Do you write about love?”

She stopped to think for a minute. She knew the truth, that wasn’t the issue. Was she going to reveal it to him?

That, of course, was never actually in question. She would have told him anything he wanted to know from the moment she met him. If only to see the satisfaction in his passionate eyes.

“Yes. I write about love.”

He leaned in even closer until it seemed they were sharing the same breath and she could count the freckles in his eyes.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to write what you know?” He spoke softly and smiled beautifully and she knew that was a point for him in their verbal spar and yet she wouldn't be disappointed if that's what success looked like on his face.

“Then I suppose that I must have been in love once before.”

His laugh was invigorating.

“Oh,” he rested his head in his palm “you found the time to reflect even with my pestering? I’m glad. Your multitasking is pretty impressive, darling.”

“You talk too much.”

She finally closed the distance with a long, soft kiss on his smiling lips before pulling back and resting a hand on the side of his face.

“Happy anniversary”