The Signs of What You're Looking For

|| Joan Leland ||

"First draft of anything is shit."

|| Ernest Hemingway ||

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If you could open your eyes, and dwell on something you see what would it be?

Now what if you could open your eyes but don't see anything, will it still be a view worth dwelling?

Well, let me be honest with you I certainly do not think any view is worth dwelling. Whether you're on the highest peak on the planet or in the deepest part of the Earth; perspective changes not only the landscape or the portrait in front of you, it changes you.

A view is not worth dwelling to be exact, it is worth appreciated.

Now, let us not overuse the term "dwell" and skip to the part where a point of opinion can be fathom by readers, like you.

So our story begins on the third day of the third month of the year, wherein a lady, not younger than twenty, and certainly not older than thirty, but just as exact as the middle number of the numbers lining up from twenty to thirty, was sitting in her usual spot in a local coffee shop, typing another story, far different than this one.

Her hair was tied in a dainty bun, and her coat, was of the shade of coffee brown, and her brown eyes trailed along the screen, as her fingers tapped keys against her laptop's keyboard. She craned her neck one time, and yawned, before looking up to observe her surroundings. There were about only twelve people in the shop, most of them were senior citizens reading newspapers, and some were business men around the age of fifty, but she knew she was the youngest person at that time on that place, except for the in-charge worker of the café, who was a guy, a year or so younger than her.

The Sun was in its peaking time, and the clock said it was fifteen minutes pass seven o'clock and the sky had proved it right. It had the lightest color of blue and orange, with a hint of pink, and a splash of sunbeams illuminating the cumulus clouds' edges, giving it a trace of prominence and beauty.
It was warm at that hour, and yet since it rained last night, there were still chills, the kind you feel when you had just woke up from a good night sleep. She directed her gaze on the glass window by her side, and saw the "slowly getting crowded roads" cars passed by every minute, and only a few people were out on the streets, most of them were street sweepers and road workers, and some were just doing their regular morning exercise.

She smiled to herself for a brief moment in time, admiring the environment she was in, taking every single detail of it, in her heart, curiously driven to how everything functioned at the same moment of the same time. Her eyes went back to her screen, its pages were now filled with letters, that if connected and read, conveyed sentences that conveyed paragraphs and dialogues. While wondering what could be the next word to be added to the collection, another worker of the café approached her.

This time it wasn't the cashier she had seen earlier. It was a teenager and he had dopey green eyes, a strong jaw that went up and down, as he chewed a gum in his mouth, messy brown hair, and a skinny figure.

He was wearing his uniform which was a white button down underneath a green apron, he had a cup on his right hand, and a piece of paper on his left hand.

He looked down at her, and sniffed, "Are you Joan?" he asked, glancing at the paper in his hands, "And you've ordered a coffee latte for a take out?" he continued, with a very slow pace in talking.