Notes From Non-Corporate Coffee
A copy of Jim Harrison’s The Women Lit by Fireflies found in the cafe library. I borrow it for a friend.
I stash my books in the library’s handcrafted book case built by a deceased patron. My books rest between Danielle Steele and Clive Cussler.
Another white cup, but no logo. I taste the difference.
Stevie Ray Vaughn plays.
No new products advertised.
People are conversing. Someone in here is thinking of a good idea that might improve the world, I can just feel it. I can almost smell it.
Across the street, decades ago, I began my life as a writer. It began in an old brick building paid for by a Robber Baron. No one is ever going to write that about the new digital Robber Barons. They are ten times more heinous than Mellon, Carnegie and Rockefeller and wear fitted t-shirts wile doing the robbing.
I smell baked goods.
A woman with purple hair meets a man with gray hair.
People are talking about the sun.
A huge man comes in wearing yellow suspenders to hold up his gut.
Do I write differently while drinking coffee in a corporate atmosphere? Someone should conduct a study.
(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)