I’m slowly realizing how hard this project actually is. And I’m like: Eeek. It’s only Day 4 and I feel totally in over my head. I mean I must be crazy to think I can use craft prompts as writing prompts. These questions were intended to be created with scissors and glue and paint and not the squeaky keys of my keyboard. On top of it all check out the prompt for today:
Take a five-minute walk, then make something using whatever materials are available where you’ve ended up. Leave it there for someone else to discover, but be sure to document it first!
This is the forecast for today: Showers and scattered thunderstorms. A few storms may be severe.
How am I expected to write something when I can’t even go outside? Uggh. But anyways, here’s my attempt:
I have lost track. I think it has been eighteen straight days of rain or maybe today makes nineteen. I don’t remember. It’s all grey. I never thought it was actually true until I moved here, but everyone was right. It does rain constantly in Seattle.
I let go of the sheer lace curtain, slipped on my rain boots, coat and grabbed my umbrella. Seattle is a place where every piece of rain gear is needed for protection and I promise you, you will still wound up getting wet, in one way or the other. It rains sideways. It rains diagonally. It even rains up. It doesn’t matter how, you’ll get wet.
It was a bit cool outside and I could feel the air nip at the tip of my nose. God, I am ready for summer. Strappy thong sandals, sundresses, shorts and cute boys in board shorts. Maybe this year I will meet somebody worth any of my time. I mean I did move here to make things happen. And so far, has anything happened?
This was my normal morning routine. Wake up early. Feed the cats, Wallace and Gromit. Slip out of the apartment before the city starts hustling and bustling. Then I find myself sitting for hours at the local coffee shop, immersed in the ramblings of my mind and the breaking news until it’s time for work. And then the next day I do it all over again. Today was nothing different.
The bell rings on the door as I push it open. Followed immediately by the roaring sound of the grinder, a constant background noise in this place. Jamie is methodically creating one of his signature drinks behind the counter. I find a spot in the corner next to the windows to bury myself in for the next few hours. The line is long so I hang back watching Jamie at a distance. This is my favorite part of the morning.
His index finger delicately levels the espresso grinds. The muscles on his tattooed arms flex as he tamps at the portafilter. Then he twists it into place on the espresso machine and punches a button which extracts the most perfectly timed espresso shot. In the meantime he is steaming the milk into a beautifully frothy mixture. It all comes together at the same time and he smiles slightly as he hands the drink to the customer. He executes it with such accuracy. How can he never falter in his routine? Even after nine years of waiting tables, I still make mistakes, spill a drink, mix up the orders. But not Jamie.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches me watching him. He winks at me and I panic for a second before looking away. I stare down at the screen of my computer, pretending to be engrossed in whatever is in front of me. Which is nothing, I haven’t even turned on my computer yet. I feel my face turn beet red. Hopefully he can’t see this, since he can only see the side of my face, but I let me hair hang down on that side just in case.
Jamie was one of the first people I met when I moved here. He helped get me a job as a waitress at Frenchy’s, a burger and fries place owned by his friends down the street. He comes by the bar a few times a week, orders food and shoots the shit with me while I’m working, but it never progresses any farther than that. He is just Jamie, a friend. Quite, reserved, collected. I barely know anything about him, other than the fact that he makes the best mocha soy lattes I have ever tasted. And he likes mustard, but not ketchup.
Immersed in my daydreams, I don’t even notice the café has cleared out and Jamie is walking towards me. I pet my bangs to make sure they aren’t sticking up in all directions.
“Hey, Kate.”
He hands me my mocha soy latte.
I blow on it then sip it. “Mmm. Delicious as always, Jamie. How do you do it?”
“Love,” he says. My eyes dart up to his face to see his look. It’s normal relaxed. I look back at my coffee. “What’s the topic today?”
“Massive execution of seagulls down in Golf Port.”
“Really? Seagull serial killer, that’s what you got.” He laughs.
“Yeah, it’s hard being a journalist. ”
“I guess you take what you can get, huh?”
I take another sip of my latte, “You can’t be picky if you wanna be a writer. Maybe one day this freelance stuff will stop, but for now, it’s all I got.”
The bell rings at the door announcing the arrival of a customer and the end of our conversation. He glances toward the register and then back at me, “Well hang in there champ.” On his way back up to the counter he turns back around, “You gonna be at Frenchy’s tonight? I was thinking about grabbing a bite to eat there.”
I shrug my shoulders, “Aren’t I always there?”
He smiles and turns to go back to work.
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