A lot can happen over a cup of coffee

It just happened again, the shiver down my spine.

My eyes are wild, my heart’s beating too fast, it may just jump out of my rib cage.
I need it, fast, something, anything, I need it. I can’t stop this. I see a newspaper lying on the corner of the coffee table, 2 tables to my left. The man on the table is reading it, sipping Café mocha, freshly brewed in a white cup and eating a delicious looking croissant, probably cheese. I can’t resist this, I’m a maniac and I fear no judgement. I’m breathless.

Newspaper? Check.

But how will I inscribe this madness? I can’t hold this no more. It’s driving me insane. Sweat trickles down my spine and makes me shiver. I’m not at ease without my remedy. I remember putting it in my bag… I scavenge through it but my dosage is nowhere to be seen. I need to hurry, I can’t let them see me getting possessed. The ghost, on my shoulder is screaming at a deafening decibel level into my ear. My eyes are now like that of an eagle, observant, careful, locating the prey. Everything is slowing down. The voices reduce to mute and I can only hear the ghost screaming into my ear to hurry. The clock is ticking infinitely slow. Time has stopped almost, my eyeballs are working over time searching for a device that goes with the newspaper to vent this mania. The boy at the counter, red apron, wise eyes, White collared Shirt. He’s taking out something from the apron pocket. Is this what I need? Yes.

Is the man still at the table? Check.

Newspaper with him? Check.

Boy at the counter? Check.

The pen is in his hands? Check.

Ghost on my shoulder? Definitely check.

Pulse rate? Don’t ask.

The entire coffee shop audience turns their heads towards me as I stumble across my own table, lifting my petty 48kgs up and run like a maniac to the counter. I say something. “I’m sorry?” Says the boy. I’m profusely sweating, my eyes are crazy with madness. I have no more time to waste. I snatch the black and golden pen from his hand and glide through the empty coffee table and reach the man sitting 2 tables left from where I was sitting. I snatch the newspaper from him and give him a death threat look which silences his protest. He’s scared, trembling, concerned, worried, confused, bewildered. I don’t care.

I tear the plain blue patch of the health energy drink advertisement and sit beside him. The audience is looking at the spilt coffee on my table, which might have happened when I stumbled into it, the broken cup on the floor, the boy at the counter who has no idea what happened and the man who looks confused to death. Judging? Disbelief? Concern? Disapproval? I don’t care.

The ghost licks her lips in satisfaction and commences. Her hands are forcing mine to scribble something on the paper. I’m possessed. Within a minute she flees away with a soft light breeze leaving the old me, simple plain me, and a few words across that blue patch of paper. It’s only been a minute and 43 seconds since everything happened. People are still staring with half hung jaws. The man in front of me with the silver neat glasses, a black smooth coat, probably Raymond sits frozen with the white mug in his right hand and a rolex on the left… ROLEX!? Did I just offend an elite class businessman? The boy from the counter is approaching me. I gulp and look down at the stolen pen, a black pen with traces of golden, and lovely pink small cherry blossoms. This is some serious shit. At precisely 8:56 am and 44 seconds of a perfect Saturday, I will be thrown out of a coffee shop for offending an elite class businessman, stealing a pen right in front of an audience, spilling coffee, breaking a cup and confusing If not scaring the 6 people in the coffee shop half to death. Being thrown out of a coffee shop is plainly ridiculous. The man in front of me slowly slides the blue piece of paper towards himself and reads the poem the ghost forced my hand to write.

“Her coffee is on me.” Says he to the counter boy. “Cappuccino, miss?” I slowly nod, wide eyed. Now it’s my turn to be frozen. The pen is loose in my hands and the man slowly takes it from my hands and gives it to the boy. The audience comprising of a rich looking lady with a small poodle in her huge handbag, a couple whispering themselves, the counter boy and a girl in a similar red apron by the coffee machine are wondering what on earth is happening. “You’re gonna write for my company.” Whispers he. “She’s a writer” Says the counter boy. The audience nods in approval and understanding. This is the Writer’s Syndrome.


I’m sitting on the same table, treating my friend with the city’s finest coffee from my first salary. A boy comes over to take our order, takes out a black and golden pen with small pink flowers and smiles. “Would you want to know miss, how creepy your friend is?” Says he with a smirk. She looks at me with a sense of confusion. “Ehh sure”. “Well, you’ll read it yourself in 2 minutes if not more” Says he as he leaves the black pen on a napkin in front of me, he’s smiling.
Is that a napkin? Check.
Pen? Check.

Netra Hirani

A writer under construction. feel free to check my site, Scriptechtellus thefemiversifier.wordpress.com

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