“How…how do you do it?” She eyes him carefully as she slowly stirs her spoon in her tea.
“Do what?” He drums his fingers on the table in an annoying cadence. His eyes dart, as though someone is after him.
“You’re…you’re not afraid.”
He jerks his head at her. There’s a slight sneer. She resists the urge to gulp.
“I…I just mean. You do it all, right? Music, painting, drawing, writing. And some of it…” She holds her breath then sighs the next words “Some of it isn’t all that good.”
“Ha. I know that. But how much of it is excellent?”
She holds out her fingers an inch apart.
“Worth it” He smiles to himself smugly.
Her face twists.
“So?”
“So what?”
“I asked you a question. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
She bites her lip so hard it hurts.
“The thing! I guess…how do you put yourself out there?” She’s leaning forward on her elbows now.
He grabs both of her hands in his, a warm smile spreads across his whole face. She blushes. She can feel it in the warmth of his touch. For a moment, she’s certain this is going to be it.
“You wouldn’t get it.”
She throws his hands to the side. “Ugh! I knew you were just going to fuck with me.”
“Oh? Is that what I’m known for? Just fucking around?”
She studies him for a moment. They’ve been coming to this cafe for this long, but she doesn’t really know what he is known for.
“So that’s your big advice for your best friend huh? ‘You’re just not going to be all creative like me. So just don’t try!’” She looks down at her hands folded in her lap.
She has to say it.
“I…want to write.” It’s a squeak.
He’s still, but just for a second his ears twitch.
“Well…I used to write in school. I won a few awards…but I guess I lost touch with that part of myself.” She’s watching herself fiddle with her fingers.
“Could I…see?”
Her eyes widen as if she’s been slapped. “No! Absolutely not!”
He shakes his head, smiling, and leans back, then looks away dismissively and slurps his coffee.
She’s speechless. She wants to protest, but she isn’t sure why.
“But they’re not good!”
“Mmhm” Slurp.
“What if you don’t like them?”
“What if?”
“Would you still be my friend?” She pleads, almost sounding like she’s trying to change the subject.
“Depends how bad they are.”
“Come on! Be serious!”
He exhales. “Why do you want to write?”
She stares past him.
“Come on. Tell me”
“I guess…I’m getting older. What if I die and no one ever sees the real me?”
“And who’s the real you?”
“Well…I’m smart, cute, fun, sweet, eager to please. I’m a naturalist, and a reader. I’m shy but not too shy.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“And I want to be…a writer.” She puts reverent honey on the word.
He grabs her hand, and puts a pen in it. He drags it across a napkin.
“There. You’re a writer. I dub thee writer.”
“You don’t ever take things seriously!”
“I guess I don’t get it. What do you mean by ‘a writer’?”
“You know. Like…like an author! Like…I want my books published in stores!”
“You want the whole world to read your writing? You won’t even let me read it!”
Her teeth clench and she seizes.
“But that’s different!”
“Hmph” He slurps his coffee.
“You know it’s really annoying when you slurp like that!”
He slurps louder
“You’re impossible! Just tell me. Aren’t you afraid people will find out you’re a fraud?”
“Why? Have you heard something?”
“Just tell me how to art, asshole!”
“Fine. You want to know? You really want to know?”
“Obviously.”
“Here’s your assignment: you come back here tomorrow with the most embarrassing story of your life.”
“What!? That’s -”
“I’m not done. Then we’re going to critique it for structure and grammar.”
She stares, agape.
“I. Won’t!”
He rolls his eyes and slurps his coffee.