It’s a Friday morning. I am on my way to work and realise I haven’t answered his last message. I do this a lot; just put my phone away without replying to anyone. My days are too hectic, I need to be available at all times, and there comes a point at night where it gets too much, and I can’t deal with being contacted anymore. It’s unfair, but I can’t help it.
I answer, we exchange a few lines, until he says,
What would you like to do, work wise?
If you could just pick?
Without thinking, I reply.
I’d have my own business. A cafe, maybe. Down in Brighton.
I can feel how writing eleven words spark a flame in me; something I feel passionate about. But I can also feel how quickly the fire gets extinguished; buried by the knowledge of how this is not achievable, how I am trapped in something I do not want to do. Trapped as someone I do not want to be.
It would be cute and traditionally decorated, mostly monochrome with colourful accents depending on the season. The tables would be round and the chairs refurbished from a vintage shop. There’d be a selection of cakes and pastries with a few seasonal items (citrus flavours in the summer, cinnamon and nutmeg at Christmas). The smell of freshly ground coffee would linger in the air and there’d be an extensive tea menu to choose from.
The other part has comfy armchairs and sofas with blankets to relax on. A bookshelf or two with an array of books to choose from. There’d be a “One in, one out”-policy: you may take a book that you like with you, however, you have to leave a similar one in exchange.
It’d be open to everyone and loved by many, building a personal relationship with the locals, maybe some day taking orders for baby showers, engagement parties and wedding receptions. A family business, potentially passed down to the next generations.
Maybe some day.
’til then x