Limbo

I wasn’t sure what possessed me to read the newspaper that day; I didn’t usually read it. I loved to read, but current events bore me. However, that morning, at eight o’clock, I dressed and walked to the coffee shop. I had called out from work sick, though I wasn’t, and planned on working on my novel. But first things first, coffee, and the newspaper.

I sauntered into the old coffee shop, taking notice to all the things I usually did; the cracked brick walls, the faded photographs, how the chair legs bent ever so slightly, making them tip when you sat down.

This particular morning, the shop was mostly empty, except for a handful of people who I recognized as writers that lived here in town. They were sipping steaming cups of black coffee, typing away. They always sat in a certain seat. One, who wrote in more of a mysterious way than the others, usually sat in the right corner of the shop. It was darker; you could see the reflection of his laptop light on the wall behind him. Another writer loved to look out to the street, and sometimes smile at the sunrise. Such different personalities. I’d say mine was a mixture of the two.

It always made me anxious to be around them, though. I was an amateur writer, with not one book published. They were my idols, and they intimidated me. But, that coffee shop was my favourite in town, and so I still bought my coffee there.

I sighed as I handed the woman at the cash register a five. The prices seemed to get higher every day. I didn’t even get change back. I suppose she didn’t expect me to want two pennies anyway. I could have used those pennies in the future, but I wasn’t the type to object.

I wrapped my fingers around the coffee mug and stepped over to the table of creamers. I poured some in, and then mentally kicked myself for doing so. No one important drinks creamed coffee. I sighed and moved over to a table behind another professional author, whom I admired greatly. His name was Andrew Burked, and he wrote a lot of romance novels. He even included some mystery into one or two; his writing was amazing. His back was to me, like it always was. I could see what he was writing, and sometimes I followed along, but most times I just listened to the sounds of the keys as they clicked against the keyboard.

I sipped my coffee once it was cool enough, and continued to watch the back of his top-hat clad head. He wore such old fashioned clothes. I, on the other hand, was much less original. And that morning was pretty much the same. I wore a brown sweater, with charcoal sweatpants, and some sneakers. Comfy, and perfect for mornings.

Once my coffee was about half gone, I walked out into the cold to grab a newspaper. I had left my coffee on the table; no one else would be coming in anyway.

I placed my change into the box and opened the door, grabbing a newspaper and walking back inside quietly. The last thing I wanted was to disturb everyone, and to have them notice me. I took my seat, and began to read.

I only skimmed through most of the sections. Those including sports, community, and politics. But I did read through the names of the middle school’s honor-role students. I was glad to see that my niece had made the cut. I couldn’t wait to call and congratulate her.

I also stopped at the obituaries. I read through all the aged men and women, died of old age and cancer, and then went to the younger people of the town. Usually, this age area was empty, but that day it wasn’t. It had one name in it. Lynde Silton-Moore.