1956

15th December, 1956

MILA SULLIVAN'S PEN traced her mind's thoughts. When she did, the background noise of dirty crockery crashing against sinks, the gossipping older women, and the frequent sound of fast-paced feet carried by hurried gusts of wind from co-workers serving, couldn't distract her. Not when she linked her pen to paper. In her few months of working at Ophelia's Diner, Mila had come to acknowledge and master the power of concentration, allowing her to blur out the racket surrounding her on breaks. Every weekday at around 4.30 p.m, Mila would rush up to the second floor of the diner, carrying her purse, searching for her pen and notepad. She would approach the middle table. It was her favorite table because the window showed a clear view of the street, usually adorned by impatient traffic, wandering pedestrians and now, falling snow. It granted her an entertaining view of the outside which made her feel less trapped in the claustrophobic environment she worked at. She could forget about the smell of frying fast food and the whining children, simply by focusing away.

Mila would slide into her seat, place her notepad in front of her and prop up her purse to her right, nearest to the window for safety - not that she didn't trust the place, but to be precautious. She would then get a steady grip of her pen and her eyes would hover outside the window and around the room for inspiration.

The upstairs area was long, decorated with a lively vibrancy that ironically none of Mila's co-workers had. It was made up of: designer cherry red, lengthy booth chairs with stripes, fonts of cream; white glossy tables with steel legs; napkin pull-out metal containers on the table beside brightly designed, eye-catching menus and delicate salt & pepper glass containers(which Mila thought was a bad idea considering how many young children frequented the diner); sky-blue walls; community posters that read opportunities Mila would read ritualistically as she served, 'Theatre auditions for Singin' in the Rain open now!', 'In person... Bobby Darin, see him TODAY!', 'The Hills - now hiring!' and black and white floor tiles. When Mila had first started working at the Ophelia's Diner she had guessed that they had been specifically designed so that families would be forced to head for a meal there, victims of the hand the stereotypical fascinated kid, leading the family by the hand, eyes enchanted by the colors. Mila also sometimes wondered how fascinated she would've been as a child by the design of the place. One thing was for sure: Ophelia's Diner looked happy, inviting. That was, despite the Winter darkness and cool lights that dramaticized the exhausted bags under Mila's eyes.

As Mila looked back down at her paper she became frustrated with a slight frown. She longed for her poetry to be breathtaking. She imagined that every detail worth observing outside was like a note when she wrote it down, which she would then compose into an orchestra of beauty through her ink. Mila wanted her work to be so sweet, so fine that her expectations would cause her to be frustrated like she was now. She would sometimes cry, sitting defeated on her bed, because she was missing a word, detail, a feeling to finally complete the poem. Truth was, Mila had never actually liked any poem she had written, but always felt inclined to keep writing because 'that poem was the one'. Everyone liked her poems but she didn't. That poem had never had been the one. 

Mila wanted her poems to be an orchestra of feelings, but she could only ever simply write a melody. She looked down at her half blank paper. The pen gravitated above the paper, the tip a mere inch away from the paper.

Her brain would give her nothing.

She set her pen beside her notebook and leaned toward the window, her elbows propped on the table, chin supported by her two, joined hands and lower-lip pushed up against the top, making her resemble a small, upset child that hasn't gotten their way. She hadn't, to be fair. 

Mila tuned in to the condensed sound of the howling wind and hooting of taxicabs halted within traffic outside. One specific taxicab was honking desperately as if it was in a panic, similar to how impatient customers would be with her. It had started mizzling from the grey skies again. Mila refocused on the window and observed the snowflakes as they landed on the window, melting away into tiny streams down the glass, taking swift turns in their courses. The snowflake Mila watched now trailed down, joined path with another steam and reached the windowsill, where the journey ended.