The clacking always gets me.  Nothing interrupts my writing like the sound of stilettos. Click clack click clack click clack.  I mean, this café is great – good coffee, open windows, rustic feel, friendly staff.  What better place to write your next big story?

Probably a place that diva businesswomen don’t frequent during their coffee breaks. 

This deal will make me rich. 

He’s a micromanager.    

I’ll fire her if she pulls that bullshit again.

It’s all the same.  I hear it all.  First dates, last dates, friends catching up, the free-loaders who sit there without ordering anything.  I hear it all.  See it sometimes, too. 

The “business” meeting ends.  Glance out the window.  Sip of coffee.  Back to work. 

You see, I really am writing my next big story.  This one has a chance.  Really, it does.  Boy.  Girl.  Conflict.  Resolution.  End.  No use boring you with the details.  Unless you’d like to know.  Doubt it.

But it’ll be good, I promise.  Thing is, I’ve been having a hard time writing lately.  Not because of the stilettos.  This one wears flats.

She talks on the phone sometimes – that’s how I know.  Don’t judge.  But she’s been coming to this place for as long as I have.  Long legs, fashionable.  Has an attitude about her, from what I can tell.  Actually, that’s about all I can tell you.  I can’t see any higher.

It’s a real issue, let me tell you.  How would you feel if all you could see was feet?  Most people at cafes – at least I’m guessing – people-watch, enjoy the atmosphere, maybe catch a smile from a sexy lady.  Not me.  What color polish are you wearing today?  Red?  Fascinating.  Let’s talk about it over coffee.  Yes you have to pick me up to see me.  Be gentle though.

She doesn’t paint her toenails.  At least not from what I’ve seen.  She only slips her feet out when she’s feeling restless.  Kind of scary when she does though.  Well, it is when you’re my size.  Just think about it.

She’s taken a liking to the table next to me.  No, don’t mind the toy-sized man with the toy-sized table with the toy-sized chair with the toy-sized laptop in the corner next to you.  Rude.  Comes in after work at 6 every day, plops her fat brown leather backpack on the ground, swings out her laptop, types away.

You see, she’s a writer too.  I don’t know what she’s writing about.  But I know she’s a writer.  Some days she types fast, some slow.  She’ll drink a minimum of three cups a night.  After the last cup, she’ll turn into a double-skyscraper, grab the bag, and vanish.  I call her Charlotte, after that chick who wrote Jane Eyre.  Because that’s another female writer who pisses me off.

I only get into girls my size.  Really, I do.  It’s not like I discriminate or anything – it’s just more practical.  But I have this love/hate thing going on with Charlotte.  You see, I’m this coffee shop’s writer.  Been coming here for years, staff knows me, sit in the same seat every time.  But now you have Gigantor Charlotte, looking all philosophical and studious while her stupid phony shadow blocks out all my good light.       

She’s kind of fascinating though.  A few days ago, she brought a friend.  I figured more as a wall to ricochet her thoughts off of, based on the way she talked to her.  The friend hardly got a word in edgewise.  She was pissed about it too – she tapped her foot and shifted in her seat so much that I thought she was going to get up and leave.

But Charlotte’s ideas are interesting.  At one point, she lectured her friend on the subject of time.   To her, everything is perceived.  Everything except for the exact present moment, which is the only thing worth giving any thought to.  And I think she truly lives this way.  When she feels something, you can tell that she’s really feeling it.  I mean, how often do we really see genuine, raw emotion come from someone?  She explained Frankenstein’s plot to her friend, and nearly cried.  I’ve never seen someone feel art first-hand like that before, and it was beautiful.  Anyway, she’s disgusted by nostalgia, and thinks that older people are just “young people with more years.”  That’s her spin on the whole “live in the moment” cliché.

It’s interesting because Charlotte not only shares her ideas, but she kind of transfers them – even to the third-party observer like me.  You lose track of time listening to her, and the world becomes bigger and smaller at the same time.  She makes the shit that’s usually in our peripherals disappear, like phones and whatnot.  But at the same time, she’s challenging you with her own feelings and ideas, creating an awareness that makes the world a lot bigger.  She’s able to connect to a person, and almost manipulate their present.  Well, at least that’s the effect she had on me.  I’m not sure about her friend.

Maybe it’s because we tinies are sheltered – but needless to say, I was in a trance.  Love, hate, love, hate.  Hate, love, hate, love.  I needed to talk to her, either to ask her to change cafés or have a cup of coffee together.  Wasn’t sure which one yet.

She continued to write.  I labored over when to confront her.   Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.  Green pants, jean shorts, yoga pants.  Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  Red flats, rain boots, heels.  Sunday: off.  Enough.  Next time I’d do it.

Monday was long.  I endured an endless amount of opening acts at the table in front of me to get to Charlotte.  Two younger women, loosening their shoelaces after a long run.  Three moms, rummaging through their purses to find the best picture to show off their children.  Four college girls, flipping their flip-flops and gossiping about the weekend.  

6 o’clock: Charlotte.  She sits down.  Bag. Laptop. Starts writing.  Brown khakis and black ballet flats.  I stand up, most likely looking a combination of pissed pathetic.  Timid stride past the bag, approaching the unapproachable foot.  I hope it doesn’t smell. Or crush me.  Both scenarios would suck.

What to do, what to do.  Scream up, hope for a response?  Tap the foot, freak her out?  Not sure whether she’ll think I’m a bug or a mouse.  I’ve been mistaken for both, you know.  God, I’m sweating.

Let’s tap the foot.  Shit.  It’s squishy.

She jerks away, and gives a little yelp that would’ve been cute if it didn’t potentially signal the end of my existence.

“You’re back!”

“Me?”

“You!  My little protagonist!”

 “What?”

“Let me pick you up.”

“…”

Holy shit what’s she talking about she really knew I was there that whole time and now I’m in her giant hand and her big brown eyes are staring at me and –

“I was wondering when you’d finally talk to me again.”

“…”

“Don’t play that game.  Just because you have your itty bitty cubby hole down there doesn’t mean I can’t see you making eyes at me and acting all coy.”

“…”

She laughs sets me down in front of her.  Long brown hair, thick-rimmed glasses, full red lips – I finally see the other half.  I open my mouth to explain my predicament to her.  Nothing comes out.

“Well, now that you’ve come back to me, I can finally get back to writing.  You’re my inspiration, you know.”

She flashes a smile and a wink, and lightly pats my confused head.  What’s she talking about?

“Come see.”

She gestures towards her open laptop. 

At the top of the page: Little Shakespeare.

The first few lines read,

“The clacking always gets me.  Nothing interrupts my writing like the sound of stilettos. Click clack click clack click clack.  I mean, this café is great – good coffee, open windows, rustic feel, friendly staff.  What better place to write your next big story?”