I hope you enjoy.
(photo model - Jean Marie Sheridan)
The snow had fallen heavily outside when I woke up from a deep sleep. I had been dreaming about meeting an unknown bohemian woman with black hair pulled back into a large chignon in a coffee shop, talking about Thomas Wolfe and the effect his words had on our lives. I did not want that dream to end because I had just ordered a large cup of coffee with just a touch of vanilla as my unknown friend pulled out a pack of Gauloises followed by a chipped purple lighter from her rather large messenger bag. When I awoke, I found myself wanting that cup of coffee. I dragged myself from under the warm covers and walked into the kitchen, hoping that I still had some vanilla syrup left. I did not. All I had to drink was Blue Mountain coffee that I bought in Jamaica several years ago and regular creamer. I knew that the coffee’s taste would not be what I desired but I made a pot of it anyway. Today was an important day and I wanted nothing to change or diminish it. Today was the first day of calling myself a writer, a full fledged writer. I had decided a week ago that I was no longer satisfied with my corporate job and that I wanted out from the “machine”. I had published a small novel a year ago and to my surprise, the novel did rather well, giving me more than enough to live a comfortable lifestyle. The novel won several awards and my publishing company wanted me to write two more within three years followed by more, if only I gave up my current job and made writing a full time “thing”. I said yes.
While the coffee brewed, I thought about the moment a week ago when I turned in my notice to my supervisor, telling him that the life I had been thrown into years ago out of desperation was not the one I wanted for myself. He accepted the note and my words with a hint of a smile then turned to face his computer and began deleting my name from the records. I turned and walked out of his office, never to set foot in it again. When I made it home two hours later, I called up two of my friends and told them what I had done and that we needed to celebrate. They came by an hour later with bags of ice for my bathtub, many bottles of beer for the tub and Chinese food. We sat and toasted to my new life and proceeded to get drunk while watching depressing foreign films and re-writing the scripts vocally.
So now here I was, one published novel under my belt and a new one freshly brewing in my mind and I wanted vanilla coffee like the one I had ordered in my dream. The coffee was taking too long to brew, so I went into my cold but satisfying living room, turned on the heat and then turned on my computer. After several seconds of black screen, the computer came alive with hisses and pops and soon I was ready. I sat down and began to type out the words even before my word processing program showed on my screen. The coffee finished percolating six minutes later but I had forgotten it. Even the thought of the beautiful and pure snow lying outside my flat became a distant memory that I did not regret. All I had on my mind were my words.