The Search

   The soft rhythm of jazz was a comforting backdrop against the muffled zoom of the city, as people clicked and clacked down the concrete streets, and cars drove by in bright streaks of noise and exhaust. Peter played with the handle of the ceramic mug. There was a thin crack near the rim; he said nothing to the barista but shifted the cup so that he was no longer in danger of cutting his lip open.

   The warm scent of vanilla roast coffee made him smile unconsciously but when his gaze fell to what was before him on the table, his face fell.

   A blank sheet of paper sat accusingly in front of him on the table, intimidating in its sheer whiteness. The pen in his hand was useless without his brain to guide it, and Peter's brain was stuck in an odd sort of limbo. He looked around - left, right, left again, outside the window where he caught the eye of an old woman, down to the paper ... his mind was racing just like his line of sight. 

   What should he write about? His notes were scattered before him, his neat cursive decorating the papers. But to Peter, they were nothing more than a jumble of letters and words. Meaningless. Worthless.

   "Would y'like some more coffee, love?" The barista appeared at Peter's side, holding a pot of coffee in her hand. Her long red hair was tied in a side ponytail and she looked bored. There was none of the false cheer on her face that Peter saw adorning the ones on young students sweating their summers away at Starbucks.

   "I need to write a story," Peter found himself replying instead. "I need to write a story but I don't know what to write about."

   "Didn't ask you that. Asked if you wanted coffee," the barista huffed. She turned away, taking Peter's answer as a no. Peter watched her as she returned the coffee pot to the machine and began to bustle about at the counter, her long hair swishing like the tail of a fox.

   What was her story? How did you start working at this coffee shop and why? Was it to pay off student loans? Was it to pay for school? Maybe she's saving up to go to Europe and expand her horizons, and maybe meet a handsome French man and enjoy a hot date at the Eiffel Tower?

   Peter thought these thoughts and pondered these ponders. He picked up his pen, twirled it once, and then set it down. He took a sip out of the coffee and found that it had become cold.

   He picked up his pen again, and began to write.