The Writer

The Writer

The guy sitting at the window in a coffee shop on the corner of Church Street and Left Side Street got up from his table to get the order. The pen that he dropped, when standing up, rolled to the edge of the small, wooden square table and stopped there, demonstrating quite distinct bite marks around the barrel.

The guy was writing something, but the notebook was left on the blank page, like he either doesn't want to risk anyone occasionally looking at his work, or wants to start with a blank page when he gets back. There is visible steam coming from a large, almost full teacup waiting for the "writer" beside the notebook near a small plate hosting a few bites left of an almond donut. There is no way not to notice a ridiculously massive amount of used napkins covered in donut frosting lying all over the table; some of them tucked under the plate. Two empty creamer tubs are hiding in a small pile of napkins behind the cup. The dark gray long coat is hanging on the backrest of the chair, opposite to the one the "writer" just left.

Oh! And there is also a large black backpack carelessly tucked under the table. A charger cable is leading from inside of one of the backpack compartments to the table, but the guy took the phone with him, so, now, the cable's connector is lying freely on the table, waiting for a small pool of spilled tea slowly creeping towards it. Fortunately, the notebook is in the other direction.

Wait! The pool has met one of the napkins and is now being consumed by it; it looks as if the cable avoided the risky encounter this time. Now the "writer" is back with more donuts.

Perhaps we should leave him alone with his work.