“What’s she doing?” they both strained past patrons and furniture to see the figure sitting in the corner of the café.
“Writing her Nanowrimo novel”
Lisa sipped her cappuccino, her brow furrowed not understanding what Jamie was saying “But, she’s not typing anything”
“No” he said, eyes firmly fixed on the figure sat hunched over the laptop, fingers resting on the home-keys of the keyboard “she’s been like that for hours.”
“Looks like it” said Jamie, his eyes finally leaving the desperate body language of his friend trying to squeeze words out the ends of her finger tips.
“I don’t know why she does this to herself every year” he looked at Lisa and smiled a little at the thin cappuccino mustache on her top lip. He loved the way she never seemed to notice – he thought it was cute, she wore it well. He sipped his coffee. The café was dim and comforting. It’s walls painted deep somber tones – womb-like he’d always thought. It felt like a cave with the added bonus of some of the best coffee in town. He sipped again.
“You know what her problem is?” Lisa said, “The problem is, they say you should write what you know, and she doesn’t know anything.” Jamie kept at his coffee in small particular sips. “It’s not that she’s stupid or anything” Lisa continued “it’s just that she does nothing outside work. Workaholics can’t write novels – they can write reports and memos and phone messages and lists but not works of fiction.”
He’d heard Lisa’s theory at least a half a dozen times since the beginning of the month when the whole “write a 50,000 word novel in one month” had started. The conversation, like the company, and the café, were all familiar and comforting. He continued sipping his coffee; it was a complete feeling of warmth he loved on these Saturday mornings he spent with his friends at the little café on the corner of the street.