Meliorism

Maybe

It felt like nothing at first. It was the same old feeling—though painful, he had become accustomed to it. He walked down the steps of the apartment building of the Russian publisher. He really did think that he'd have a shot at this--it was a small-scale publishing house—but it turned out he didn't.

Turned down. Again.

Dave fixed the position of his laptop bag. It felt oddly heavy, as if all the failures found in that bag were weighing him down. He continued to walk, in spite of the harsh wind that blew right at him after every second. He cursed himself for forgetting to wear a sweater—he was just wearing a shirt and battered jeans. He'd been beyond excited to present his work—and maybe that's why it struck him bad this time. He set his expectations high. The thought of getting turned down was way beyond him.

He wanted to hide. He just wanted to go places, but that wasn't possible at the time. He'd worked on that story for months--he even missed his best friend's wedding for it. That story had changed his life's course, in a less poetic way than anybody could think.

But it was all done. Dave immediately seeked his only refuge: coffee. Well, there had been two refuges: writing and coffee--but now, just the thought of typing one word killed him. Writing, in a way, had both built and destroyed his life.

Somehow, though, after every time that writing destroyed a part of his life, it would come back and bring him something better. So he held on to that hope: that there's something better about to come. He tried being optimistic. He waited.

He felt ecstatic, just opening the door to the coffee shop. The familiar scent of coffee filled his nose, and almost as if in a hurry, he walked to the counter to buy himself coffee. Dave felt ridiculous, of course, but besides French films and yellow umbrellas, coffee was the only inanimate object that could make him truly happy.

He sat down on one of those chairs facing a roundtable whereon some quote from a certain book or movie was painted on. This specific table showed one of my favorite quotations from Salinger's stories: "I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of making me happy." He smiled. Maybe that's why he thought the world was bringing him down. Maybe the world just wanted to make him happy, and he thought of something else—something more destructive and painful. Maybe that's what led to his constantly being lonely.

As Dave was taking out his laptop and losing himself in this familiar state of reverie, a girl approached him. He looked up even before she'd said something.

"Hi," he greeted, smiling. He tried to make myself look busy by setting up his laptop and all the other crap he'll be needing to improve his story. Dave didn't want to write, sure, but then again that was just his subconscious, and his subconscious had long gone away even before he entered the coffee shop.

"Are you Dave Glass?" she asked, squinting. She was just standing in front of him, but, somehow, Dave could tell that she's not as tall as he is.

"Yes," he replied. "How'd you know me?"

"Well, I go to your website often," she said, sitting down beside the vacant chair beside him. She sat as if she'd known Dave for years. She was so familiar to everything. "And I happen to read your stories."

There was a heavy pause after that, mainly because Dave needed to process that bit of information. This kind of compliment came so rarely to him; he had nothing to say. His mind was filled with words, but they didn't seem sufficient enough.

"Oh, thank you," he said. "You are...?"

"I'm Lauren Brie. I'm an English major, and I know from your blog that you are, too, so we have that in common," she said, laughing a trifle too loudly for the given situation. Her laugh sounded like everything he'd ever experienced. Cheesy, but it did sound pretty.

"Nice to meet you, Lauren," he said. Again there was a silence between them. It lasted for a while. Dave spent that while thinking of what to say next, and just one thing came up to him.

"Would you like to go out for dinner?" he asked, slowly, carefully.

Lauren grinned. It wasn't a goofy grin—it was a genuine grin, the one thing that gave away her true feelings. "Sure. Let's meet here at six o'clock."

And then she left swiftly. She grabbed her things from a table nearby, then hurried off to go outside. She didn't even glance at Dave.

He started to gather his things, obviously excited for what the evening might have to offer. Maybe this was the compensation writing was giving him for his failure earlier that day. Maybe this is the better thing to come. Maybe.

He went outside, leaving the strong, beautiful scent of the coffee shop behind him.