tags: espresso-summer, fiction
So, I’m back with friends in NYC. Small excursion to Philadelphia for the fourth over. On recommendation from a friend, I went to monkey cup to get some coffee and do a little writing.
From the rooftop of Taylor’s apartment building, she can see the murky gray rain clouds descend on the skyscrapers in the distance. Leaning over the edge she can see the tops of the tallest buildings disappear into the misty embrace. The city in summer rain.
The tiny rain drops hitting her forearms remind her that tomorrow is the deadline to hand in her article for this new magazine. Taylor’s friend Sofiia was a frequent writer for an education focused online magazine, and she recommended Taylor to the editors. If the editors liked her article, then maybe they’d invite her back for another. Being a freelance writer meant she was constantly on the chase for another article—another beat.
The intensity of the rain ramps up. The dark clouds spreading through midtown have reached her building and are bringing with them enough water to soak her curly black hair. She rushes down two flights of stairs to her apartment to escape the surging downpour. On rainy days like this she likes to write in the coffee shop a couple blocks down the road. It’s the type of place that people go to talk as they sip warm lattes. Large long tables opposite the espresso bar invite various caffeine addicts to sit next to each other and share the week’s miseries. Unlike other coffee shops around, this one doesn’t provide wifi. If you’re going, then you’re going to have to talk to someone. No headphones and Zoom meetings.
Taylor liked this arrangement. She enjoyed the random conversations. After all, it was where she met Sofiia. On that particular day the long tables were neatly packed with groups of two or three sitting next to each other leaving only one open seat between them. Taylor chose to sit at the chair on the edge of table. Sitting in the middle of the table meant listening in on two separate conversations. Better for Taylor’s writing focus to only hear one. When she’d be stuck on a sentence she could escape into a snapshot of the daily life of the group next to her.
Sofiia though could fill an entire room with her voice. Taylor wrote nothing that day. She had barely opened her laptop when Sofiia asked her if she could borrow a pen. Her black ballpoint G2 ran out of ink, and she was in the middle of sketching a story about her weekend on one of those old-timey yellow writing pads. “Oh, yeah. Sure”. Taylor not to be one to leave the house without paper and something to write with reached down into her purse and pulled out a purple pen. “Here you go. Is the color fine?”
“Ooo. Purple’s great! Thanks!” Her voice pierced above the soft ambient murmuring and laughter of the coffee shop.
