AT THE BOOKSTORE
I have struggled to write for the last month and a half. There are times I begin to wonder if I am a writer after all. One day you feel the inspiration and chatter of characters and then, it vanishes, like the spots you see on the highway on hot summer days. I can’t tell you the last time I finished a story. Coming to the bookstore was his idea, as a way of snapping out of this funk, breaking through the dastardly wall of writer’s block or whatever way you wish to describe the malaise I am suffering. He seems to think the mere presence of books is enough to push through the drought. Writing is not so simple.
The coffee I bought is almost cold and I don’t have a plot or a scene or a character in mind as of yet. Looking around the place, I see one middle aged gentleman typing like a madman on his laptop. That comprises the entirety of the company that shares this store with me at the moment. And that man hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction. Not that I blame him. I am wearing sweatpants and a plain tee shirt for the express reason of avoiding the attention of men. I am doing my best to limit distractions and excuses. But…I can’t help wondering…what is he writing?
I do think writers are natural born spies and as I move closer to where the man sits, I hope he doesn’t notice I am watching his every move. He sits erect, with his chin high. I wonder if he can see the keyboard properly. He is quite handsome for an older man, with flecks of gray in short brown hair and a strong, thick jawline. I like that he is wearing a baby blue button down shirt and grey slacks even in the middle of summer. I am a sucker for a well-dressed man and find myself wondering how much his black leather shoes cost.
He leans backward and stretches his arms over his head, a hand rubbing at sore neck muscles. His turns toward me and his clear blue eyes bore into mine with a sudden intensity. I want to look away, but his pretty eyelashes and dark pupils transfix me and I rudely and openly stare at him. A small smile washes over his face as he shakes his head, sipping a cup of coffee as he returns my gaze and I desperately do not want to be the one that looks away first.
“Hi,” I manage to say. I feel heat in my face and I have to fight the urge to run away from this man for he is reaching into my brain and touching me in places I thought locked to strangers. He does not respond and continues to probe me, not taking his eyes from mine to check me out, which is so very unusual for a man. They always look. But, he doesn’t. My stomach jumps and flips and I know I’m going to look away before he does.
“Good afternoon,” he says. His voice is a low, pleasant bass that tickles my insides and makes me squirm in the chair.
“Are you a writer?” I blurt out before I look away, not being able to take so much as a second more of him penetrating me. He laughs at my question, a slow rolling chuckle that comes from deep in his belly and rises up through his muscular chest.
“I am.”
Crossing his legs, he leans back in the chair and watches me, grinning and eyes sparkling as if he knows a secret about me. What did he pull from my brain with that damned laser stare of his? The heat continues to increase in my face and I know I am blushing. Images of him ravaging me appear in my mind against my will it seems and I do my best to push them back down into the abyss.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers, leaning forward in my direction.
“Do what?” I ask. How can he know my thoughts? Another image of him dragging me from the café floats across the screen of my brain and I shake my head to erase the picture.
“Don’t fight your brain. Let it take you where it wants to go. Get out of the way of your inner writer. Free your mind.”
I see him pouncing on me and ripping my shirt away from my chest in a violent manner. “Should I write these thoughts or wait?”
“Why wait? Begin writing the moment a thought forms into words.”
He could have me right now if he wants. I bet he knows that or feels it. The only question is if he wants to take me. Of course I am wearing sweatpants and have my hair restrained in a pony-tail. I close my eyes and wait for him to decide. Harvest me, savage me, do anything you wish to my body…oh, what am I thinking? Where did these thoughts come from? I came here to write a story and I have been possessed by this man’s eyes. Possessed I say. I might let him take me over the table, right in front of the boy making the coffee. I cannot resist.
I open my eyes and see I am the only person in the café. The boy behind the counter is starting at me and without a word or gesture to him I gather my things and make a hurried exit from the store. I am ready to write again.
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