I sit, perfectly positioned, in my Starbucks. I have the right to call it mine. Not only is it the only one on the whole island, but I also work here. Iām cozily cuddled into the corner of the single booth that conceals me from my closing co-workers, but allows me to look onto the other patrons lounging in the cafe and out onto the drowsy highway. The rain is still falling, but much less than it was earlier in the day. Iām lazily sipping at my grande white mocha, what I get when I have no idea what I REALLY want.
One of our regulars sits a few feet away from me in one of the two soft, brown leather arm chairs we have. He keeps glancing over at me, trying to decide whether he actually knows me or I just look a little too familiar. Thatās the problem with working at Starbucks; customers rarely recognize you out of uniform. Especially mine. They canāt believe their eyes when they see their usual Dallas without her ponytail and some lipgloss thrown on haphazardly.
āOh goodness I never realized how pretty you are!ā Theyāll exclaim.
āYep. Hard to believe I have a life outside of here.ā Iād like to sarcastically remark.
You have to understand that Iām not a writer. I donāt put things down on paper to make a difference in other peopleās lives. I do it to make a difference in mine, so I remember important (but mostly not important) things later when itās usefull. Almost like building an intellectual arsenal. Things I hope to live by, or repeat in an attempt to stimulate my mind; make me think.
I love thinking. When most people see me with some far off look in my eye, they assume the worst. That Iām dull, not very bright. Dim witted and rather stupid. Thatās not the case. Iām far brighter than anyone knows. I was looked down on by others for being too smart, and tossed aside for not being smart enough. In my 18 years Iāve learned to keep my wild ideas and thoughts to myself. No one appreciates them as much as I do. Sometimes I think theyāre just jealous that they didnāt think of it themselves.
Ashley, the closing shift, sits down in the stand alone chair opposite of me.
āWatcha writing about?ā
āThe constellation Capricornus.ā I lie. I donāt write. Thatās Brandyās hobby.
āOh. Ugh Iām so tempted to turn that damn sign off. The last few daysā¦ā
She drones on, Iām not really listening. Too busy typing away at this computer thatās too small for my aggressive typing.
āGoing out for a cig. Ladies care to join?ā Lee, the scruffy 30 something year old Jesus look alike asks us.
āEw. No.ā Ashley and I say in unison.
āTo each his own.ā He chirps on his way out the door.
By now, about twenty minutes have passed and two young men have walked in, placed their orders, and are now sitting at the table closest to me. They were talking of girls and different social events for quite a few minutes; but now their chatter has stopped. I can feel their gazes moving from my face to my typing hands, back to my face again. They stay silent for a minute or so, before I break the trance by switching from keyboard to phone. Their small talk is forced now, and shorter each time they recollect after staring. They talk of different exercise plans, how ārippedā they are now. How many different ways can women say that they donāt care for such trivial matters?
Shit. The computer is about to die. Let me change my positionā¦..ooooh. This feels weird.
As I move, I feel their eyes following every move. If their swiveling heads werenāt indication enough, they have fallen dead silent. Once Iāve taken my seat again, they hopelessly fail at keeping up small talk. I feel their hot stares burrowing into the back of my head and hands.
Iām not vain by any means. Sure, I may seem that way to those closest in my tiny circle of relationships, but thatās only so they donāt try to break apart the war I have ragging inside myself. Everyone I encounter says Iām quite gorgeous; mom often remarks on the stares she catches, the first words out my grandmotherās friends are almost always āOh Wendy sheās absolutely beautiful.ā It makes me uncomfortable.
Hunger pains are growing on my left side. All the tourists came through this morning and wiped our pastry case clean. I have dinner to make at home, but I need the closeness of other humans right now. Iāll be confined to that giant, empty house tomorrow, actually writing my Astronomy essay on the constellation Capricornus. As much as I loathe social interactions, being surrounded by others is nice. Plus, I know I wonāt write when I get home. Iāll scroll down tumblr for hours and rewatch all of season 1 of āHannibalā.
My ex boyfriend (if thatās what you can call a guy you dated for 3 weeks) just texted me, letting me know how drunk he is. Itās 8 oāclock. And a Sunday. Who the hell is he getting wastey pants with? His friends donāt do that kind of shit. They still battle fucking pokemon cards and play with their Nintendo DSs for fuckās sake. At least I wait until 9:30 to crack open the grapey. Speaking of which, I have a lovely bottle of Cab beckoning me. Heās so fucking weird, I get awkward chills just thinking about it.
This is fun. If writing was more like narrating, I could do it more often.
Change is brewing in my soul, and I welcome it with open arms.
