It's the coffee, you know?

I paint. And I write. And I read. I think this sums up my life. And maybe you wonder...no, you don't wonder. You don't even know me. You don't know my name. My age. Or perhaps you want to find out about my life. What colour my eyes are? Or if I know how to cook? Or drive a car? Oh, you say you want to know my favourite dish? No, no, I know you are not talking to me. I'm just making a conversation in my head, you know, to cast away this annoying feeling. I think I'm shy. That's why I'm not into people too much. Or rather...strangers. Wanna know if I'm a woman or a man? If a have a soft heart or a set of balls? I can have both, you know. I may be sensitive or I may be a bitch. Or a jerk. Well, let me tell you this. I'm a woman.  Yep, it was a hard guess, right?

But my life is not so interesting. I don't know what to talk about. I was shy (still am) and this led to me to have a peaceful life. I didn't like parties. Or hanging out with kids after school. I didn't trust them. This is the problem with introverted kids. They often get the feeling that the world doesn't get them and the world mocks them because they are different. And they end up building this thin bubble around them, trying to fit in. The less they speak the better. But oh, they are good observant of life. Of people. I know for sure because I am. You see much more when you don't engage yourself in conversations. It's easier to notice the details. A little smile there, a crooked one here. Fingers finding their way in her palm. A frown. A tear in the corner of the eye that is immediately removed with the thumb. Glances over the table. Starings. Smile. Fake smiles. Angry faces. Life. Life everywhere. Love. Lust. Faith. Dreams. Terror. War. Humans. Life.

This is why I paint. And write. I want the world to see all these things. This is me, on a canvas, in many colours. In many letters. I want them to find out. But how could they when I'm afraid to show them? All those paintings, stuck in the wardrobe. All those stories, in a drawer.

I wake up each day at seven a.m. At eight o'clock I have to get to work. My job is to read manuscripts and then hand them over to the editor to publish them if they are any good. I'm just an assistant. My boss told me to write something when I'm in the mood. She thinks I've got talent but the terror still holds me in its arms and I can't let the world see my true colours yet. I'm not mentally prepared..I guess. I'm a coward. 

As I drive to my work place I always stop at that coffee shop I go since highschool. They make the best coffee in town. Maxways it's called. Have you heard of it? They make the best cafe latte in the world. The taste still lingers on the tip of my tongue after I finish drinking it. And the coffee..oh the coffee... tastes different with each time I drink it. Depends on my mood swings I think. But that's why I love it because it's never the same. The only variable in my life. That coffee and him, the boy, the barista who always makes me the coffee. I don't know if I like him. I don't think I do. I don't understand love and it scares me so...uhm...yeah. I just go there and order the usual and wait until it's done. He never smiles. Well, only a little when he sees me enter the shop. And then he becomes his usual self. He makes coffee and draws flowers and animal faces and snowflakes. He's polite. And silent. 

The moment he sees me he knows what I want. I don't have to order anymore. When he's done he calls me by a small hand gesture and I walk to him. He hands me the cup every time and touches my fingers with his bony, cold fingers. His eyes flicker and I imagine him leaning forward and kissing me. Not a lustful kiss. Just in the corner of my mouth. And the tip of his tongue brushes softly on my bottom lip before he moves away from me. I imagine him asking me if I like his coffee. If I love to read. Or listen to classical music. I don't judge people and I don't judge him. I don't want to read him and destroy the fantasy. 

And he makes me want to paint his words and write down the touches. The words I never heard and the touches I never felt. I'm just imagining them and still can't put them down on paper. Or on canvas. I can't describe them. I just feel them. My stomach tightens and my heart hurts. My blood boils and my head spins.  It's cold. It's always cold. "Cold" is the best adjective for this. When will I be able to draw feelings and write feelings down? To get them out of me and put them on a white sheet? Words and colours are not enough. 

"Do you live, do you die, do you bleed For the Fantasy? In your mind, through your eyes, do you see, it's the fantasy". 

Yes. I will give my life for the fantasy. I want it but I know I can't have it. He touches my fingers as he hands me the cup and I thank him and walk out the door. I'm just a woman who goes there to get her coffee. It's always the coffee which keeps me going through the day.