“Here you go” said the perky waitress in little Shakespeare, setting down the warm cup of vanilla latte on my ancient ebony table. “Thanks.”I responded with a crinkling smile, feeling no gratitude towards her.

As soon as she left my personal space I sighed in acute relief. The familiar ochre floating in lighter clouds comforted me. The smell of cocoa and vanilla makes the world a background noise. I took a deep breath. I needed to browse the bookstore before starting my dreadful assignment. My life was a perpetual downward spiral. 

“People aren’t broken. They’re just interestingly wired.” ― Silvia Hartmann. Sigh.

The quotes carved on my table reminded me of the vehemence of a lost era, a time when quotes and ink held Delphic wonder. I stroked the patterns in pity. Had I not once dreamt of writing something so profound that it would validate my purpose? I had. Well look where that landed you my subconscious sneered.

It was my dream that now made millions for the people I’d naively believed in, it was my thought that found an echo in a million hearts, it was I who watched it being tossed over like a pack of cigarettes.

I shouldn’t resent it now. I will get another moment to glow. “Don’t lie to yourself, Bronte.” I heard a voice from the adjoining table. I snapped out of my reverie and turned my head slowly to the direction of the speaker. Reid.

In one fluid movement he stood up and sat across from me. His long brown hair slightly tousled, his nut-brown eyes measuring my demeanor. “Aiming for the sad Keanu look?” I rolled my eyes.  “You’ve got that harrowed expression again.”  He settled an ivory square on the table beside the now icy dose of caffeine. I fixed my gaze on the fierce jaw, the wishful eyes and suppressed my own inexplicable need to linger a little longer. “A book?” I said, tilting my head, my hair cloaking my eye.

He just kept looking at my hands. The sound of tearing paper made me the Sun for people within earshot. His perfect lips turned up into a knowing smile. I ducked a little with a wispy “sorry” and there it was, my personal miracle.

Dear Miss Faye,

We happily accept the request for publishing your debut novel, “Somewhere”. It will be a success. Our entire staff is excited by the possibilities of this project.

Find enclosed with this letter of approval, all guidelines required to finalise this process. The production editor had a few notes so enclosed. The paperwork is a preliminary draft of your book contract.

Please look these over till 5 December 2015, also feel free to contact the head of sales Mr. Carroll.

Looking forward to meet you.

Sincerely, yours

William Hatter.

Tears of consternation and reassurance blotted my cheeks. Reid shifted his chair and closed the distance between us. For the first time in my anaemic existence I was seeing signs of life. The rain of joy terrified me like a nightmare. “It’s happening, it’s coming for you.” I gazed at him through the tears, “unparalleled Happiness” he whispered. The words embraced my thoughts, reverberating silent prayers of gratitude. “Winter”, his voice implored me to accept the moment.  “Reid” I whispered with all the emotion I could converge into the preceding words “Why do you care?”

He tucked my hair back, I could feel the weak willed restraint leaking out. “Because, you make me brave” said he in his oceanic voice. He saw things the way a dreamer knits incessant illusions, with a mutilated hope, hope nonetheless. I cannot recall who kindled the searing Lip-embrace as I called it, but it hurt to part. All my sorrows washed away. “Reid you’re a mythical creature” I sighed. He snorted attractively; I do not know how one accomplishes that. He stood up beckoning me to follow him “Today’s book- purchase monstrosity is on me, go play in your natural habitat, Winter.”

PS- I am ashamed to be writing anything at all. It's a fucking shames that I have neglected this sacred blog for mso long. Any plea for forgiveness cannot clear the guilt and shame.

He walked in the purple haze. The light filtered by the dust motes, softly falling on her phantasmal visage or mirage? His feet lucidly trudging the moss floor. The errant pounding of the massive stereos now a soft thumping on the ground, his steps mirrored the beat. The graciously poured alcohol had started making its intentions clear. His hands instinctively ran through his floppy hair.

He could smell the smoke from this distance, the familiar scent of the wild mingling with soot from the cedars. He trembled a little, a small part of him afraid to disrupt this perfect Shangri-La. He quirked his lips remembering, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?” He steadied his breath and set his gaze on the magical enchantment especially conjured from his personal hell.

“Will you paint me?” she laughed quietly, her eyes playing with the light. His eyes fell on the Art supplies at her feet. She smiled a lost smile, a trick of the eyes he guessed. “I guess I have time” he scrutinized her face, probing for an indication for this hour to be a dreamer’s paradise. “I am getting old here” she chortled, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. He sat down on the grass, his back against a cedar trunk. Never once did he let  his gaze off her, worried if she’d fade away. She was wreathed by an Elysian glow, the kind we read in folklore. Her head was swaying to some imaginary tune he wished he could hear too.

The charcoal in his hands glided on the paper unceasingly, his eyes lost in the valleys and moons of her facial world; every part of it was a revelation. He remembered something from a book he’d read awhile ago, the unworldly maiden who was perpetually lost in the woods. Her hair tangled into the branches and she became one of the trees.

 She held still but there was fluidity to it. The Sun kissed the horizon and the world became a balmy breeze.

“Do you come here often?” he asked her with palpable curiosity, he was finished with the portrait. His fingers lightly brushing the shadows, lingering wistful stroke on her lips.  “Yes, whenever you do.” She murmured, her voice becoming dreamy.

He looked up to find an empty space, just in time to realize that he had invented her all along.

P.S. This story doesn’t imply that your beloved author writes under chemical influence. Also, it’s magical to write in a toasty blanket- of- dreams on a chilly Winter evening.