21 Jun “So… like… I´m reading this article that you wrote. It´s really bad and immature”, I tell the writer as I sip my coffee.
I continue talking, “so who is it for? What´s it about?”
The writer pauses; sips his coffee; he turns his head to look out the window then back at me.
“It´s for me.”
I pause; excuse me?
The writer takes a sip of his coffee.
“The article is for me–it´s to remember or to let go, to find peace, or to remind myself of something. It´s a progression of life that moves forward and I merely leave notes that I´ve written.”
I pause; I have no clue what this dude is talking about.
“So… like… I don´t understand.”
The writer pauses; sets his taza down; picks up a biscotti; takes a bite.
“You are not the audience–you are the observer.”
I pause; did he just take my biscotti?
“Yeah”, I say as I reach over and grab the biscotti, “that´s actually my biscotti.”
“Oh”, he says as he leans forward in the chair, “sorry.”
He picks up his taza; takes a sip.
“So… like… anyways.. as I was saying. I write articles in the morning; edit in the afternoon; and read them in the evening. It, with my herd of savage cats, is my companion. I share with you so maybe it will help–or give you ideas, make you think about something, or, possibly, just see that I did my article today. Does that make sense? Like everyday, like a digitalSudoku puzzle, I try to complete one. One article a day keeps me sane–more or less. So like it´s not just about passing the time, or making money–it´s a way to… well… I don´t know. I write.”
I pause; I think he just drank from my taza.
“I´m sorry”, I say as I reach over and grab the taza, “that´s my coffee.”
“Oh”, he says as he turns his head to the window, and then back to me, “sorry.”
“Yeah”, I say as I lean back in the chair and take a sip, “whatever.”
“So”, I say as I lean forward in the chair and pick up a biscotti, “you´re fired.”
The writer pauses; he leans back in the chair; he gasps; he turns his head to the window, then back to me.
He pauses again.
I pause; what? Isn´t he supposed to cry or something?
The writer picks up his taza; takes a sip; sets is down.
“Yeah”, he replies as he stands up from the chair, “I didn´t want to work.”
I pause; oooohhhhhh!
I turn to the window and then back to him.
“Um”, I say as I lean forward in my chair and set my taza down, “you´re rehired.”
The writer pauses; he turns back to me; he pulls the chair out from the cafe table; sits down.
“I know”, he says as he leans back in his chair, “so I´m going to need a raise in pay.”
I pause; what the fuck is this?
“So”, I say as I lean back in my chair, “like… you´re fired.”
The writer pauses; my wife said this would work.
“But….”, the writer says as he leans forward.
“Look”, I say as I lean back in the chair and turn my head to look out the window, “I´ll pay for the coffee, this time. Thanks for the article. Good luck.”
The writer pauses; I pause; the waiter comes over with the cuenta; I pull out my digitaltarjeta; moments later, I hit propina 15% on my digitaltelephone; nearly instantly, the waiter´s digitalphone beeps; a new message; he smiles; I nod, a little bit; the writer starts to get nervous.
“So”, the writer says as he slowly gets up from his chair, “… like… I´m just… like… you know… I don´t know.”
He turns around and takes a step to leave the cafe; I turn my head to look out the window; there´s 13 surfers today; hope there´s a swell later. I turn back to the waiter; I put a finger up in the air; moments later, another taza of coffee is brought over; I take a sip; this is fucking delicious. I turn my head to the waiter.
“Where´s this coffee from?”, I ask as I set the taza down.