I haven’t been able to get my head in the rewriting game today while at home, and so I’ve gathered up my things and walked down to the coffee shop for a change of scenery. It’s too easy to get distracted in my own space sometimes, and I find that putting myself into a noisy communal one oddly enough helps get my creativity sparked.

Finch is working today, and she waves at me when I come in. I pick a table and sit, knowing she will bring me a tea and a slice of coffee cake without my asking. It’s sort of nice to have been here so often that I don’t have to order anymore.

Bez went back to her apartment yesterday, all part of our cycle. In about two weeks, I’ll end up at her place for a while, and then back to my house alone, until she comes back again and stays with me. It’s what we do.

I didn’t sleep well last night, alone in bed for the first time in weeks. Another warm body in my bed becomes habit forming very, very quickly.

Finch comes to my table and presents me with my coffee and cake. “What are you up to today?” she asks.

I tap my fingers on the cover of my laptop. “Trying to finish a story. I’ve been being lazy a little too much recently.”

“Is it lazy,” she asks, “or is it just charging the batteries?”

“No,” I say. “I’m pretty sure it’s lazy. I’ve been putting too much energy into relationships lately, and not enough into antisocial writing behavior.”

“But is the relationship energy working out for you?”

“Not really,” I say. “No romance on the horizon as far as I can see.”

“Romance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she says. “Keep on with the writing instead. It’s probably more fulfilling in the long run.” She pointed at the coffee and cake. “That’s on me today. A little present from the universe.”

“A present from you, you mean.”

“Same thing in the long run. Let me know if you need anything else, honey.”

I wrote about Finch once, pages in a notebook I sometimes remember to bring with me when I come to the coffee shop:

I want to know where that tattoo on her arms ends. Flowers and vines, rising like smoke up from her wrist, past her elbow and up under her sleeve. Do they curl around her shoulder and split in two, joining a cascade of inked flames or dragons falling down over her back, and a rain of petals or symbols across her breastbone and down her side?

She is a moment of time, a page of a grand novel that I want to read cover to cover in one sitting, and then read again from the beginning.

I started to put her into a story once, but I couldn’t quite get her just right.

Perhaps I’ll try again once I finish this one.

Perhaps I’ll find out what she wears on her skin, at least in my own mind.

Or perhaps I’ll just ask her.

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  1. Excellent. Posts like this one always take me somewhere new.

  2. I love vining ink…

    • Kameko

       /  January 20, 2012

      I am fascinated by it as well, although I’m not tattooed myself in any way. I appreciate it on others, but I don’t want to get anything done of my own.

      I’m so dull, I know.


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