Think About Me

Chapter 1: Good Intentions

It's quiet in the coffee shop this morning.

I sit in my regular spot, at a small table in the front by the bay window. The barista likes to tease me about it -insisting that I'm what brings in customers, which honestly makes me a little self-conscious- but I like this spot. I like the view of the street, that I can watch the hustle and bustle of the historic downtown area. I like that I can hear the rain drumming against the fogging glass, steady and alive like a heartbeat. And, maybe most importantly, I like that it's near an outlet.

My laptop sits on the table in front of me, the blank, white page staring at me tauntingly. The openness of it -no contrast of black letters whatsoever other than the page number in the top right corner- is too much, becomes too intimidating that I refuse to look at it another second more. I roll my eyes and sigh ungraciously, folding onto the table and burying my face into the crook of my arm. The plastic frame of my glasses pushes uncomfortably against the bridge of my nose, so I turn my head to the side and just close my eyes.

I've been writing since I was a kid -never anything too serious. I have a few things that I think could turn into something I'd maybe like to publish one day, but currently they're sitting on the back burner.

Last year, I discovered a writing app on which you can share stories you've written and read other people's work. I quickly became immersed in it, endeared by the camaraderie I found with other writers within the online community and entranced by the validation of readers' positive feedback. Somehow, I've managed to build up a bit of a fan base, a small but loyal group of readers who patiently wait for updates on the story I'm currently writing.

I groan softly to myself. This week's chapter should be updated tonight if I want to stick to my personal deadline, but I just can't make the thoughts transfer from my mind to the page.

I need to relax, try not to stress. I inhale deeply, let it out through slightly parted lips. Again and again.

Mmm. The whole shop smells heavenly. The coffee beans behind the counter, the aroma of varying hot brews scattered sparsely on other tables throughout the small room, the hint of rain that filters through the edges of the old windows, my own hot chocolate which sits to my left -the back of my hand just barely touching the steaming mug.

And it sounds like a dream. Soothing and peaceful. The quiet chatter, the soft scratching of pen against paper from my neighbor two tables away, the gentle ringing of the overhead bell as someone enters, the subdued splash of freshly brewed drinks in clean mugs. It's all so... therapeutic. Until the buzzing of my phone against hard wood to my right pulls me from my calming stasis.

I smile at the screen and answer quickly.

"Well, hi there, Tyler."

"Good morning, Carter," he answers with the same teasing tone.

Our relationship is still fairly new -we've only been seeing each other for close to two months- but one thing I learned almost right away is that he doesn't like pet names. It seems a little silly, if I'm being honest, that he dislikes them so much, but I really don't mind. It's a small price to pay for his company.

"What are you up to?" I ask as I take the handle of my mug and test the temperature of my drink by bringing it to my lips.

"Well, I woke up just a little bit ago to find you... not here."

He lives in a small, two bedroom house that he rents with a buddy of his over on the south end of town, and last night was the first time I stayed over at his place. It's fairly clean and well kept, but it's obvious that two twenty-something men are its tenants being that the only décor on the walls are wrinkled movie posters.