Page 167 of Let's Kiss and Tell

Marsh

This is the first time I’m writing out of a coffee shop. My preferred setting to write is at home: alone, dead silent, like a psychopath. Coffee shops always felt like a place for people with imagination. A place where the smell of java can get your creative juices flowing and the establishment’s New Americana playlist can make you feel you have something profound to say.

I never thought of my writing as something profound. It was simply work. Facts and figures that needed to be told. I viewed myself as a machine and that’s exactly how I worked.

But today, I’m trying something new. It seems like lately I’m doing a lot of that and I’m quite enjoying it. Last week I got a tattoo of a swallow on the inside of my biceps—Sadie picked, and it was either a swallow or a marshmallow; this morning I went to a hot yoga class for the first time; and now I’m writing in a coffee shop.

I found a corner spot at a not-too-busy place in Highland Park, so I sit with my iced almond milk latte. I used to be exclusively a hot coffee kind of person, but I’ve picked up a few habits for thebetter this summer. Putting on my AirPods, I dive into a piece about the latest protest that happened in Downtown LA.

Forty minutes into my writing session, a woman with an NPR tote bag walks up to me.

“Hi,” she breathes out apologetically, “is this seat taken?”

Instinctively, I look around the coffee shop, and the spot across my tiny two-top table is now the only vacancy.

“Oh.” I gesture to the seat. “No, go ahead.”

“Thanks.” She smiles and then pulls out the chair. She hangs her tote bag over the seat and takes out a black binder and a pen.

Her blond hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head. She has an oversize red cardigan and a white tank top underneath with a pair of baggy jeans. She opens the binder and reveals a script of some kind with lines highlighted. Her eyes begin to scan the pages, and she’s mouthing something to herself, stopping, and then jotting down notes next to the highlighted text.

My eyes revert back to my screen, and I continue writing my piece. When I finally finish, I figure I’ll stay for another hour and knock out my next story about a concert ticket scam.

“I’m going to get a cup of water.” I look at the woman across from me. “Want anything?”

Her gaze lifts from her page in surprise. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll have a cup too. Thank you.”

I return with two cups of water and place one on the table in front of her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” she says, taking a sip. “So, what are you working on?”

“Just some work stuff.”

“Fun,” she laughs in response to my vague answer.

“What about you?” I ask.

“Memorizing lines.” She tips her binder toward me.

“You’re an actress?” I say and then instantly regret how stupid it sounds because what else would she be?

“Yeah,” she says as nonchalantly as possible. “It’s for a play happening at the Pasadena Playhouse in the fall.”

“Nice,” I say. “What’s the play?”

“Macbeth.”

“I think I’ve heard of it.” I squint. “Written by that guy…”

“William Shakespeare,” she says, amused.

“That’s the one.” I point a finger. “He’s making his rounds, isn’t he?”

She lets out a laugh. “Keep an eye out for him, he’s pretty talented.”

“I will,” I say.

“I’m Kathy.” She leans forward.