The rain comes down just as it threatened all morning, with a sort of vengeance that follows a drought. I relish it, catching myself smiling as I gaze out the window from my spot at the local cafe. The string lights hanging outside are almost all burnt out, less bulbs shining than not.

“What are you doing—working?”

It’s Friday, past 4, and I’m alone with my hair pulled back, watching the river outside as it rages in the storm.

“I was,” I tell the older man who’s mixing sugar in his coffee next to me. “Now, I’m writing.”

His wife, I assume, stands behind him, waiting as he fixes his coffee to his liking. She smiles at me. “You like writing.” 

She says it as a statement, and I nod, feeling energy in my chest, the way I always do when I talk about writing.

“Love it,” I tell her. “I work in marketing, but writing is my true passion.”

“Fiction or nonfiction?” the man asks. 

“Both! But right now, I’m writing a fiction book. I published a fiction novel last year, so now I’m onto my second one, although I have a new idea for yet another one, which is what I’m drafting right now.”

Slow down, I remind myself as I catch my breath. I talk the way I write: so fast, it’s hard not to misspeak. But this couple’s presence is calming, like they actually care. 

Maybe I remind them of their kids or grandchildren. 

“It’s a great escape from reality,” I say.

The woman looks into my eyes with a sad, nostalgic expression and shakes her head. “Aren’t we all trying to escape reality?” 

“I know I am,” I say, although I’m not even sure that’s true. A few months ago, sure. My entire life until recently, definitely.

But not so much anymore.

“And you’re so young,” the lady continues, her green eyes glued to mine. “Yet you’re already trying to find an escape.”

I laugh. “Oh, I don’t know how young I really am…”

“You in high school?” The man asks, and I practically choke on my coffee. “College? Graduated?”

“I am 27, but I know I look like I’m 16.” 

The woman smiles. “Oh, you’ll be happy about that when you’re my age,” she tells me. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I say instead of deflecting.

Progress.

“Well, good luck with your writing,” she tells me as the couple finds a seat across the cafe.

“It was nice meeting you!” I call after them.

Outside, the rain continues. My phone buzzes with a Severe Thunderstorm Warning. The storm isn’t forecasted to end until past 9. Guess I’ll be spending my Friday night at the cafe.

I turn back to my laptop, a half-written page of a new book staring back at me, five other tabs with five other creative projects open.

I exhale a long breath. 

Better get to writing.