So the other day I was scrolling through the Reader's Digest website (hi, yes I am a grandma) and happened upon a long list of fictional writing prompts; probably haven't seen one of those since my high school creative writing class...
And then it happened.
My fingers started itching. My heart started pounding. And my brain started whirring back to life with endless possibilities (previously dead from a long day of classes).
So, without further ado, here is my first creative story I have written in a long, long time.
Basically a giant cheeseball? Yes.
//And i love it.
Writing Prompt:
Finish these sentences: “Ever day of the week I _________, but Saturdays are different. On Saturdays, I ________.”
Every Saturday
Every day of the week, I make my own cup of coffee. But Saturdays are different. On Saturdays I let him make my morning java.
Every Saturday is the same.
I wake up at six o ‘clock sharp, a ridiculous hour for most high school
seniors. I fumble around in my dark
bedroom, trying to find my glasses, which are of course piled under a mountain
of novels from the usual late night reading.
My fingers finally locate them and I proceed to change into
my standard uniform of jeans and a flannel top.
I open up my shades and relish in the sight of raindrops on the windowpane.
I quietly bound down the steps, grab my backpack and keys,
and head outside to my car.
The raindrops create a rhythmic beat that produces its own
personal song and I forgo the radio for this peaceful sound.
As I continue driving the familiar route, autopilot kicks in
and my mind wanders back to when this weekly tradition began.
I had just completed a pretty stressful week at school and I
couldn’t wait until Saturday would come. I would spend the morning sipping
coffee from my favorite café, and burying my nose in a book I wanted to be
buried in.
I entered through the front door and shook out my coat from
the drizzle outside, already walking up to the counter with the usual order on
the tip of my tongue.
As I removed my hood and looked up to recite my drink, my
heart took a leap into my throat, closing off all possibilities of uttering
even what size I wanted.
He returned my stare with the smile that had already
captured the hearts of the entire female senior class. The most popular, cutest, well-liked (scratch
that)LOVED boy of the 12th grade.
And here he was. In my café. Serving me coffee. At 7 in the
morning.
I was barely able to squeak out my order and find my traditional
spot in back recliner by the indoor fireplace.
And here began my secret weekend routine.
Saturdays were mine.
This café was mine. And the quiet
mornings shared between him and I; they were just ours.
Not that we exchanged anything beyond my recited lines of
“medium hazelnut latte, please.” But he
always returned my order with a smile and a firm “Yes, ma’am.”
It was more than enough.
From the quiet corner of the café, I was able to truly see the boy most
girls couldn’t comprehend beyond his smile and eyes.
I saw him banter back and forth with the usual customers,
always making everyone feel welcomed as soon as they walked through the doors.
I saw him secretly pull out his own wallet and grab some change
while an old lady embarrassingly rummaged through her purse for her last 25
cents.
I saw him bring out drinks to the table with the older
gentlemen, who must also have the weekly tradition of coffees on Saturday. Always taking a moment longer at their table,
they would exchange a laugh or two, usually ending the conversation with a
couple of slaps on the back.
But we kept our distance.
As I felt we should.
My mind focuses back into the present as I park in my usual
spot and hustle through the rain into the front door of the café.
The bell rings and he emerges from the back room, with a smile
warm enough to evaporate the raindrops stuck to my coat.
I walk up to the counter and before I could get out a single
syllable, he already sets down a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.
“Medium hazelnut latte?
Got it right here for ya!”
My mouth closes and the shock temporarily freezes all
communication parts of my brain.
Finally, I utter out a small laugh, reach out my hands for the warm cup
and retort, “Well I actually going to try something new today, but I guess this
will have to do.”
He chuckles and hands me my cup, shaking his head in mock
disappointment of himself. “Maybe next
Saturday?”
I look up and our eyes lock in a knowing exchange. And suddenly it dawns on me. Maybe I’m not
the only one who looks forward to these early Saturday mornings.
I take my coffee and walk back to the far end corner of the
café.
I quickly glance back at the counter and see him helping the
old lady order a new drink today, nodding his head, and pointing out all the
different coffee varieties.
But, as swiftly as possible, he glances back at me and
returns my stare with another warmhearted smile.
I turn back around and glance down at my newest novel
sitting in my lap.
I open up the cover, skim the first page, but then close it
back up and place it on the coffee table in front of me.
I relax into my chair, a goofy smile plastered across my
face and I lift the brimming cup to my lips.
Maybe today I don’t read.
Maybe, instead of losing myself in a fictional story, I savor in this unbelievable
piece of reality called Saturday.
T.Swift, I think you just found your newest music video idea.
