Spring Fever

Andrew asked to join me for a day of writing. He sits next to me, his notebook open, clutching his head. I hope I don’t look that pained as I write. Apparently, writing plays is more torturous than writing books.

Although today writing a book has been less than pleasurable. Spring fever! The sun streams into the coffeehouse’s window and all I want to do is sit in it and read, like the man on my left. His books is about the history of Iranians, and I have to resist not asking him about it. Yes, I want to know if it’s good, but mostly I want to procrastinate.

The woman strutting to the register to order her beverage is wearing spiffy wedges. On my feet: sequined flip-flops.

In my ears: Tori Amos. She croons about the power of orange knickers. I love all knickers, especially orange ones.

A woman and man walk in together. She carries an aluminum wrapped platter; he has a backpack slung on his shoulder. She’s wiping sad tears from her under eyes, and he’s chuckling.

A little girl stops outside the window to stare at me. I smile at her and wave. She blinks, stoic. Just when I think she’s not going to respond, she lifts her hand and wiggles her small fingers before she runs to her mother. It feels like a gift.

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