I am having the worst case of writer's block ever. I have wonderful ideas and resources but just don't know what to type next. I suppose I would like to take this moment to reread something I love that I wrote last year:
The Empty Seat
Why wasn't he there? Did something happen to him? He is always there. Every morning it was the same thing, same routine. For some reason this morning was different. Hopefully nothing tragic happened to him. No, it wasn't tragic for him. It was however tragic for her. The fact that nothing happened with him was her tragedy. She never gave the opportunity for something to happen, nor did she make anything happen herself. This morning had shattered the routine she had been used to.
She had grown accustomed to a very specific Sunday tradition. Every Sunday she awoke from the warm sun on her face. It shone in from a corner viewing pane, gateway to the south. She squinted to breath in a beautiful morning upon the beachside hill of Laguna Beach. Dreams of what she wished she had done differently faded away. After finding her feet, she wondered into a refreshing shower. The endurance of the next two hours was spent perfecting a casual look. As she zipped up her baby blue terrycloth outfit, Paprika, her papillon, let out a sigh. "I'll be back in time for your afternoon beach walk," she comforted her canine companion. She popped on her favorite pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, threw her latest James Patterson novel in her purse and stepped off towards her usual Sunday spot.
When she opened the door to Caf du Monde a rousing aroma of coffee filled her nostrils. "Bon matin, Luc," she greeted the jovial Frenchman behind the counter.
"Bon matin, mademoiselle. Here is your usual," said Luc with a smile.
"It's steaming hot. How did you know when I'd arrive?"
"Your Sunday has not changed by two minutes in the past nine weeks! Besides, I saw your car pulling up."
"I hate being so predictable."
"I knew you were going to say that," he teased.
She filtered out $3.77 exactly from her purse and replaced her vanilla latte with it then wandered towards the terrace overlooking the seashore. Finding her preferred table, she settled into the somewhat uncomfortable steel Ikea chair. Keeping her coffee within grabbing distance, she plunged into the pages of her novel. After finishing a chapter she looked up and exhaled a breath of frustration. Usually her mystery man had appeared by now. She loved watching him walk into her day and started to let her mind drift into last Sunday. He strolled in casually sporting kaki slacks, a loosely worn blue Hawaiian button-up, comfortable loafers, and a smirk that fit his tan complexion under a think mess of black hair. Luc informed her that his drink of choice was a double espresso treated with proper sugar and cream to his own taste. She returned from her daydream back to the next chapter waiting in her hands. Maybe the suspense of the novel will help take her mind off of his tardiness.
It did not help at all. She could not concentrate on the book in hand. Here eyes and thoughts drifted away from Patterson's world of mystery to her own immediate mystery. Where is he? He's an hour later than usual. Is he not coming today? Why, is it something I've done? The dreams forgotten in the morning flooded back into her mind. Nightmares of should have could have would have; these are the things that she had never made an effort to pursue actively. She had always lacked the confidence to at least break the ice. Sadly, she'll never get the chance now. He never returned for his espresso at the Caf du Monde again.
Instead of sharing silence at the caf that Sunday, the mystery man woke up next to another woman, a woman that he was going to spend the rest of his life with. At least this is how she saw it. She was jealous of a woman created out of her own self defeat, a figment of her imagination. A solitary tear drop tumbled down her soft white cheek, fell, rippled, and disturbed the latte she realized she was absently staring at. The woman inside would not hold back the fearful thoughts of loneliness that now consumed her as she stared across to a seat as empty as her heart.
The Empty Seat
Why wasn't he there? Did something happen to him? He is always there. Every morning it was the same thing, same routine. For some reason this morning was different. Hopefully nothing tragic happened to him. No, it wasn't tragic for him. It was however tragic for her. The fact that nothing happened with him was her tragedy. She never gave the opportunity for something to happen, nor did she make anything happen herself. This morning had shattered the routine she had been used to.
She had grown accustomed to a very specific Sunday tradition. Every Sunday she awoke from the warm sun on her face. It shone in from a corner viewing pane, gateway to the south. She squinted to breath in a beautiful morning upon the beachside hill of Laguna Beach. Dreams of what she wished she had done differently faded away. After finding her feet, she wondered into a refreshing shower. The endurance of the next two hours was spent perfecting a casual look. As she zipped up her baby blue terrycloth outfit, Paprika, her papillon, let out a sigh. "I'll be back in time for your afternoon beach walk," she comforted her canine companion. She popped on her favorite pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, threw her latest James Patterson novel in her purse and stepped off towards her usual Sunday spot.
When she opened the door to Caf du Monde a rousing aroma of coffee filled her nostrils. "Bon matin, Luc," she greeted the jovial Frenchman behind the counter.
"Bon matin, mademoiselle. Here is your usual," said Luc with a smile.
"It's steaming hot. How did you know when I'd arrive?"
"Your Sunday has not changed by two minutes in the past nine weeks! Besides, I saw your car pulling up."
"I hate being so predictable."
"I knew you were going to say that," he teased.
She filtered out $3.77 exactly from her purse and replaced her vanilla latte with it then wandered towards the terrace overlooking the seashore. Finding her preferred table, she settled into the somewhat uncomfortable steel Ikea chair. Keeping her coffee within grabbing distance, she plunged into the pages of her novel. After finishing a chapter she looked up and exhaled a breath of frustration. Usually her mystery man had appeared by now. She loved watching him walk into her day and started to let her mind drift into last Sunday. He strolled in casually sporting kaki slacks, a loosely worn blue Hawaiian button-up, comfortable loafers, and a smirk that fit his tan complexion under a think mess of black hair. Luc informed her that his drink of choice was a double espresso treated with proper sugar and cream to his own taste. She returned from her daydream back to the next chapter waiting in her hands. Maybe the suspense of the novel will help take her mind off of his tardiness.
It did not help at all. She could not concentrate on the book in hand. Here eyes and thoughts drifted away from Patterson's world of mystery to her own immediate mystery. Where is he? He's an hour later than usual. Is he not coming today? Why, is it something I've done? The dreams forgotten in the morning flooded back into her mind. Nightmares of should have could have would have; these are the things that she had never made an effort to pursue actively. She had always lacked the confidence to at least break the ice. Sadly, she'll never get the chance now. He never returned for his espresso at the Caf du Monde again.
Instead of sharing silence at the caf that Sunday, the mystery man woke up next to another woman, a woman that he was going to spend the rest of his life with. At least this is how she saw it. She was jealous of a woman created out of her own self defeat, a figment of her imagination. A solitary tear drop tumbled down her soft white cheek, fell, rippled, and disturbed the latte she realized she was absently staring at. The woman inside would not hold back the fearful thoughts of loneliness that now consumed her as she stared across to a seat as empty as her heart.
xoxo