Note: I used to write creatively quite a bit, before life got super busy. Now that I’ve graduated from college, where all I did was academic writing, I thought I should write creatively again. The problem is now the same as it was way back when–I never finish my stories. I just don’t know how they end, and have never wanted to cop out with a nuclear bomb (although I have considered it). But, I like the process, so I’m just going to start stories here, and see where they take me. If any of you want to add to this little intro, feel free. I’m not opposed to group work when I there is not going to be a grade attached.

I was really just waiting, once again. It’s weird how you can be so busy you can’t think, and then in the process of ticking a quick chore off of your to-do list, you end up just waiting. I felt bad, like I was wasting my time, and I was pretty annoyed. Why do humans get bored? Is it an evolutionary thing? 

The coffee shop wasn’t very busy, and it wasn’t very big. If the guy I was looking for was here, I would have seen him. But no. He was not on time. Sheyl told me that this guy was always here–every day–on a laptop from mid-morning until mid-afternoon. I don’t think she was lying, or even wrong. I was starting to get worried about him. I just needed a quick word, and I’d leave him to his laptop. Hopefully he wasn’t already in the morgue. Or worse, somewhere I’d have to rescue him from. I simply didn’t have the time. 

In the meantime, I watched the rest of the people. More out of boredom than curiosity. Over at a corner table, a couple of old birds were complaining about the current administration. I concurred with their opinions, although I could tell these weren’t versed scholars of political science. The barista was running her ass off; she really could have used some help. And there were 4 or 5 people just camping out: reading or staring into phones. There was one incredibly tall man – a how’s the weather up there? kind of tall – who came in and looked around. He had a handful of magazines with him, but he was clearly looking for someone. Laptop, maybe? A very tall woman? He took a seat, but didn’t order anything. A young couple came in and sat at a table drinking sugary looking iced coffees. They both carried books–she had something by Stephen King, I didn’t see what he was reading–and both had headphones around their necks, the big clunky kind like we had in the 80s, but no cords. After 5 minutes or so, they both put on their headphones and started to read. Together, but ignoring each other, into their books. It was kind of sweet, even wholesome. 

Finally, the door opened and Laptop came in. I glanced at the time on my phone. I might make my 130 appointment after all. He ordered hot tea as I sized him up. While he waited, and I watched, the young lady with the Stephen King book got up and sat at her own table, right behind her boyfriend–they were back to back. She pulled a phone out of her purse, and what was probably a day planner. Her book was forgotten, and presumably the boyfriend too, who didn’t seem at all concerned by this. Super Tall Man got up too, and headed right to Laptop.  They chatted as laptop waited for his tea–I couldn’t hear about what–and when it was ready, both of them turned my direction. Laptop sat down on the other side of the aisle from me, parallel to the girl and her planner. My phone rang and I silenced it: Sheryl. I’d call her back, I wanted to watch and listen. Super Tall Man didn’t sit down, but they continued talking. As they talked he glanced at me, at Stephen King Girl, and back at his magazines. His eyes hesitated when he looked at the old political birds, who had now been joined by a much younger man. Seems everything was to his liking, and he returned his full attention to Laptop. 

Laptop’s real name is David Anthony Mazanares. He’s a college professor at the nearby state school, teaching environmental history, and sometimes, geography. He leads what seems to me to be a standard, boring life in academia, but his name keeps coming up in my client’s files. My client is Sarah Muscovy–I don’t think that’s her real name–and she’s involved in a messy, but hopefully lucrative, divorce. I don’t understand all the financials yet–that’s really Sheryl’s job–but somehow this David Anthony fits in somewhere in Sarah’s soon to be ex-husband’s financial affairs. The conversation I could now just barely hear had nothing to do with money, though, they were discussing something about the Black Death. I suppose that was a subject an environmental historian would be into, but David Anthony just looked bored. I was starting to peg Super Tall Man as a bit of a fanboy. Strange the things that people were into. 

As I contemplated the pros and cons of waiting patiently or interrupting, I looked absently at a painting of birds hanging above the heads of the old birds. It was, aptly, a painting of birds. I watched as the young man pulled up a chair and joined them. I was thinking about boredom again when a chair scraped the floor and there was sudden movement from Stephen King Girl. I turned to my right just in time to see her go, fast, darting towards Laptop. I jumped too, but too late. David Anthony had a knife in the side of his neck, Steven King Girl was sitting on the floor next to his chair, stunned, silent tears flowing down her face, blood on her clothes. Did she stab him? Or try to save him? Super Tall Man was backing away, slowly. He had blood all over him too. Laptop’s wound was gushing, but somehow the knife was staying put. The birds, on the other side of the room, were nothing less than appalled. Their 3rd wheel was heading through the front door, in a hurry, and the barista yelled “what the fuck?” The boyfriend was gone, headphones, book, coffee all gone. You’d have thought someone had already bussed the table. I checked behind me–was there another exit? Some private dick I turned out to be. Ten feet away, and I had no idea what was going on. My phone started ringing again.

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