Feeling like a real writer

Picture this: a café, the kind where you get fancy cups of coffee with intricate milk-foam patterns on top. It’s Friday night, the lights are coming on, pretty soon it will be dark. As we are heading towards Christmas, little lights adorn the leafless trees in front of the window. The café is full, almost all tables are taken. Lots of people are chatting around me, sharing their day or catching up with friends they haven’t seen for a while. Their combined voices make for a steady stream of sound, with a chair scraping over the floor from time to time. The clinking of coffee cups, the taps when the barista empties his  ground coffee into the waste bin. There’s some music in the background, but no one can hear what song is being played.

I’m spending time alone here, which is rare. I had decided to accompany my hubby to an appointment in town, and waiting for him I spend the time here with my iPad. There is a girl a couple of seats away who is clearly making her homework. A dingy laptop with cracks in the screen, some books and writing paper around her, a calculator at hand. She’s been sitting here longer then I have on one fresh mint tea.

An old couple on my other side, they remind me of my own parents back when my dad was alive. They used to go somewhere to drink a cup of coffee every afternoon, just to have a change of scenery and have some nice apple pie every now and then. My dad died three years ago, and my mom can’t go out of the house alone anymore. She misses him horribly, and she misses their daily outings. I hope the old couple will have lots of cups of coffee together in their joint future.

Somehow this all feels so comfy, warm and cosy. A large coffee with whipped cream on top, adorned with pepernoten ( I will tell you all about these Dutch treats in another blog). I’m doing what I love doing, I’m writing. Maybe I’m weird, but this feels just so professional, writing my stories in a café! It’s just like I’m a real writer!