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I typed and typed on my laptop. It was rare that I actually placed my laptop atop my lap. It normally resides on my desk, suckling on the electrons flowing through its charger. But now it was out in the world, in a cafe of all places. A bit of an adventure, paid for in hunger.

I looked at the blank page of my text editor while eating a BLT and sipping a diet cola, perhaps to the mild disgust of the passers-by who only came to this cafe to drink a pumpkin spice latte or whatever this season’s equivalent was. Ugh, coffee, I can’t stand the stuff unless it’s the ingredient of something bigger, grander, sweeter.

But then why was I in a cafe?

I looked out the window briefly at the parking lot. It was an ocean of concrete, and the cafe was a shrimp within it. Or perhaps the cafe was a seagull floating on the ocean’s surface, because luckily for me the cafe was a warm-blooded organism. I could faintly hear the HVAC system exhale endlessly. I never heard it change directions.

“There’s a limit of two hours,” a voice said behind me. I turned around to see one of the staff, executing the instructions given to him by the management.

“But I haven’t written anything yet,” I complained. Yet I realized instantly that according to the institution’s protocol, my precious detail was irrelevant.

“We need space for the other customers,” the employee explained.

I stuffed my laptop in my bag and my unfinished BLT in my coat pocket. I drifted among the various customers standing around, and headed out into the cold.

Notes

This was written in 10 minutes during a Joy of Writing meetup.