The Storyteller

3. Her Story

I wrote this earlier. I hope you’ll like it.

The song is Stolen by Dashboard Confessional. The photo is from Buujang's deviantart acct.

Happy Reading! =)

*****

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My fingers continue to tap on the keyboard as the ideas flow freely from my mind. Fortunately I’m a fast typer (wait, typer is just a word I created, it doesn’t exist in the dictionary so don’t bother checking it out). The words easily vanish when I don’t get them quick enough. I can’t let them slip away like before. I have to finish before my deadline because my editor doesn’t appreciate late passing of manuscripts.

I get my Strawberries and Cream frappe and stir the whip cream on top.

I’m in my favourite coffee shop in town, on the back corner, away from the noisy students and crowd. I prefer the silence, thank you very much.

You might be asking why don’t just I stay at home finishing this, but I can’t. I need coffee when I’m working. I have relapse when it’s not in my system.

Slowly, my hands begin to shake. It’s because of the air conditioner. It’s so cold, I’m starting to type slowly.

I pause for a while and survey my surroundings, finding inspiration in the little things.

There are portraits on the wall beside me. You can say they’re a work of art. The first one is a black and white painting of a man upside down. The second is an elephant, this one is colourful. Every part of the body has different colours and as far as I can see, texture. The last one is a village, sort of. It has these little houses that looks like cottages, and on the far end, there’s a beach. Looking at the last portrait, it feels like I am there myself, as if I can hear the waves of the ocean.

After, I look at the people near me. Maybe when you’re a writer it’s a requirement to be observant.

There’s a guy in front of me. He has his earphones on, and his head is bending towards his notebook. He’s holding a calculator and is tapping furiously at it.

I smile because I can’t help but compare the both of us. While he’s busy computing numbers and formulas, here I am, creating scenarios for my new novel.

I think that’s a good idea for a new story; a love that happens in a coffee shop.

Aren’t we all in need of coffee?

Now that I mention him, I can’t help but glance in his way every now and then. He has this stylishly messy hair, and excuse me for sounding cliché, but he looks good. Not the guy I usually find attractive, but there’s something about the way he moves that makes me drawn to him. Maybe it’s just because of the vibe of the coffee shop.

I also notice that he keeps on glancing at his watch. Maybe he still has a class to attend today.

The guy starts to organize the things in his bag. To my disappointment, he leaves a few minutes later.

I look at his table, and find nothing to mark he was there before. He even brought his cup with him.

I sigh.

I’m such a hopeless romantic, expecting love in a common place, as if it’s Serendipity when two strangers suddenly meet and cross paths.

My stories probably affect me in a way that they shouldn’t. I’m becoming melodramatic. I need to recite my mantra again before I lost my grip on reality.

Your knight in shining armor won’t arrive just because you’re in danger.

Your hero will not walk by when you’re in trouble.

And the love of your life is much harder to find than a pirate’s treasure.

A shiver runs down my spine.

It’s so cold to the point where my fingers are already numb. They just type robotically. Maybe it’s time to call it a day.

I turn my laptop off and put it in its bag. I also organize my things clattered on the table; my pens, notebooks, and my sticky notes.

I’ll just finish this at home.

When I’m ready to go, I slung my bag on my shoulder and head to the door.

I just walk a few blocks away when something gets my attention. It’s a guy’s voice calling someone. I ignore it because I’m sure it’s not me.

I hear footsteps behind me, and to my astonishment, someone grabs my arm.

I almost fall because of the sudden impact, but the person steadies me in time.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I’m sorry about that.”

I just stare at the person in front of me. He’s the same guy I saw in the coffee shop earlier.

I blink. It must be my imagination playing tricks on me.

But no, he’s still standing in front of me.

“Hi,” he says, smiling.

Okay, he is cute, but I already thought that before.

What is he doing here though? And why did he stop me from walking away?

“Miss, you brought something that’s not yours,” the guys says, still holding on to my arm.

I frown, confused of what he said. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And even though you’re cute, I don’t appreciate you telling me that I took something that’s not mine.

He pushes his hair away from his eyes. “But I’m sure you took it.”

I purse my lips. “I saw you leave. I even looked at your table after, but there was nothing there.”

His lips tug at the corner. “So you checked,” he says amusedly.

I bite my lip. I didn’t mean to tell him that. I clear my throat. “So what, then?”

“I’m just glad," he says, grinning. "And I think I’m fortunate that it’s you who took it.”

I sigh. This is getting tiring. “I already told you, I didn’t steal—“

“You stole my heart.”