It’s hard to write from the heart if you don’t have one, which is why I borrow the hearts of others. Well, maybe not their hearts, but for example. This girl I’m listening to right now has set up shop at a coffee house.
“I know, I came here to write and instead I’m talking to you. I think you’re getting the brunt of my creative moment right now.”
A stereotypical fucking coffee house “in the onset of the early evening” as she might describe it to her dumbass friend on the other side of the phone call. The last thing she probably wrote was a text.
She laughed as though she were trying to oversell it, “play the abused woman card slash my life everyday and just tell people that there was a doorway you see, and well, I didn’t,” she genuinely laughed at her own wit.
Fuck it, the best thing she has probably ever written is a text. I’m confident that if asked her response would be that the best piece of writing she’s ever done was a breakup text to a guy she thought she was dating when she found out they were just fucking.
“I think I ate too much. I definitely want too much. I certainly haven’t done enough to justify either,” she said with more pretension than any rich woman entertainment channels who offer glimpses of their overly dramatic lives.
I’m so confident in my assessment of her that I almost want to commit mental suicide and pursue her. Just for a couple of dates – you have to figure a girl like that will put out the first time you guys hang out. It’s something both the wanna-be artistic and actual artistic girls have in common: they put out. For the wanna-bes, like this bitch, it’s pure sluttiness. The real artistic ones, yes, some can be slutty, but the true ones are about expression. They enjoy sex for everything it is physically, and for the romanticized hope of what it could or might be emotionally, one day. Like if you’re lucky, and Hell has opened itself on Earth, and you both have survived, and she’s lost her favorite fingers from a stray demon but you’re nice enough to lend her a hand.
“But everyone should get caught up in the magic and the power of love and hope, and the capacities humans have for both,” she said exing out of her social media page.
I almost feel bad. I opened this email to compose my thoughts to you, and instead I’ve done nothing but talk about this bitch from the coffee shop who has desecrated the integrity of a true writer and certain percentages of humanity. Not that I’m a true writer. Having a slew of published short stories and a free online blog, does not make someone a true writer. However, it does make my judging her a little more appropriate, and adds a whole new level of humor to her private phone conversation being loudly spoken in the middle of a coffee shop. By no means am I being hypocritical either, I like to do my writing at the library or at your house, which is where I’m supposed to be headed, but I stopped here to get a cup of coffee and potentially a brownie – I heard one of my favorite baristas was working. She always under cooks a brownie and sets it aside for me when she works the morning shifts.
“Instead, we focus on awards and politics and personal agendas. I hate people,” she laughs, “and no, today is the first night this week I haven’t had any alcohol, yet.”
Note, she hasn’t had alcohol yet, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. When I got here, I scanned the seating area, and headed toward the line. Two people were at the counter — one paying, one ordering. While waiting behind an extremely tall man who had more facial hair than his shaved head, a woman with two athletically dressed children, a short woman whose hair had more shades of brown and blonde in it than the entire selection of hair dye at the local pharmacy,and an older couple nitpicking lovingly at each other when I first heard her. Now, I’m writing you snippets of her conversation I’ve been unfortunate enough to hear. Sometimes art can be a true imitation of life… I figured if I put her on paper I stood a better chance of tuning her out.
A hideous giggle escaped the phone-creature-poser-writer’s mouth. The extremely tall man, the mom, and the short girl all turned and looked to see if she was giggling or if someone finally decided to graciously murder her. The extremely tall man, turned his whole body toward the cackling crow, and then turned again so he was facing away from the counter. He glanced over the women and her athletically dressed children, seemingly catching the eye of the blondishly brunette, or was she brunettishly blonde, woman. He smirked, and her long hair danced across her back as she shook her head. She must have been laughing, as the extremely tall man’s face began to turn back toward the counter, he winked and broke into a smile.
The mom with the two athletic children looked back and forth between the man and woman, and then down at her own children. Her eyes subtly rolled toward the ceiling and she grabbed the slightly bigger one back the back of his shirt and pulled him away from the table of strategically stacked cups, mugs, and bags of beans. “Hi,” the mom said leaning forward to the large man, “yeah, hi,” she continued as he turned around. Unlike the first time I had seen his face, he was now somewhat scowling at the mother. “We’re starting to run late for a soccer game. They’re starting to get antsy. Can we please go ahead of you?” The woman said her voice pitching between annoyed and pleading. The man looked at the two children, true to their mother’s prediction were starting to pick up everything on the shelf. His scowl deepened. “Besides, there’s a pretty girl behind me. Wouldn’t you rather see if she’ll start getting handsy, than my children?” The man looked over at the woman, only his eyes softening, “yeah sure, but maybe teach your children not to run rampant instead.” He dipped his head and walked toward the mother’s spot on line. “Next,” Debbie, one of my favorite girls here, called from the counter.
The older couple stepped up to the counter. Debbie greeted them and asked what they wanted. Both wearing thicker coats than necessary for this time of year, they alternated brushing lint balls and other novelties from each other’s outer layer while discussing if they each wanted their own pastry or if they should share, and which one – if either – should be allowed to caffeinate their coffee or just stick with decaf. There’s more to this coffee shop than just this exaggerated woman. The tall man was now sitting with the “pretty girl” who had been behind the athletic mom who was now ushering her three children out of the front door. The old couple had decided on two desserts but split them each in half. I’ll have to ask what they ended up ordering for drinks. The one disturbance quieted down, now tweeting from her laptop, yes – I’m following her as of three minutes ago, while posting pictures of her face, her coffee, and her table settings from her phone. It amazes me how despite the one glaring fault plopped in the middle of a situation can’t take away from the beauty of life. Maybe I’m no better than she is artistically or humanly, but I’m wondering what this all looks like from your perspective. Or from the old couple’s. Or even the “influencer” dressed in plastic and arrogance.
The other day you accused me of not having a heart Deb. That I only feast on those of others, but I think you’re wrong. I think, or am hoping, that you only said it out of anger. I did something horrible to you. I gave you a reason to doubt my trust. And that is unforgivable, but somehow you have been working on forgiving me. You are a blessing. An angel in my life. After I send this email to you – one that I know you won’t check until you’re home sitting on the couch in your pjs watching tv and waiting for me to come back with dinner – I’m going to drop off the ring I got you to the pizza place. My buddy over there, Anton, made a plastic case that both protects the pizza and will hold your engagement ring. Hopefully you will say yes. Not that I deserve you, you could do infinitely better than me, but because I love you and will fight everyday to become worthy and make your life better.
Here Alex comes with my brownie. You winked so I know you made it just for me.
I love you, Deb. If all went according to plan I’ll be walking through the front door in a few minutes.