Washington.
Seattle.
Starbucks.
Tuesday.
November.
16th.
11:11 pm.
The cloudy breath of little known silence circulates in the thick-thinness of the passé wooden floorboards and overstuffed leather charging stations. The lines are gone. All the mocha frappucchinos have been shot and the paper burn guards have been put in a drawer for the night.
Twenty-three years old. A green apron in hand and a gray set of eyes. An origami heart and chalkboard memory. She's a writer. A hinge of the frame of miss-match pockets to the barrier of closed minds. She's a romantic. An appreciator of the hope in rain and the beauty in clichés. She's a deadly combination of innocence and reality. A naïve pragmatist. A juxtaposition of sunshine and abandoned sandalwood. She's broken. A product of small town honesty and metropolis-lined imaginings; the silver evolved to chrome and the chrome to the red-brown kin of disappointment.
What is she going to do next. It's no longer a question. Inquiries have answers; she doesn't have that privilege.
School is done. The part of life she has always considered to be the start of real, hard, confusing, wonderful, happy, blended-ice life has arrived and lingered over her misty mind. Her degree in philosophy is in the negatives and the window of opportunity's panes are frozen, waiting for the spring warmth of chance.
She lives the scariest reality known to dreamers. The moments in which things fall apart instead of in place and there is nothing she can do.
Her scuffed fingers turn off the final set of glowing ambience. The clock offers one last redemption. And she says," I wish…."