He came to the newsstand like every other day. Dragging his left leg, which hadn't been working properly for a long time. He greeted the clerk, paid for the paper and went to the café. He stopped at the entrance, closed his eyes and smelled the scent of everyday life, of the common and the traditional. Then he walked slowly to the back of the cafeteria, towards a table that was reserved under the name. When he arrived he put the newspaper on the table and sat down. He took out his notebook and his pencil. He breathed. There, his heart felt safe and happy. Mary, the waitress, brought you the black coffee, very hot, loaded and bitter. He smiled at her and she asked him how the novel was going.
He, while still smiling, told her that he hoped to finish it before he died. Death has been knocking on my door for a year, she's sitting on the first step of my driveway. Every day I greet her and she returns it to me with a slight bow of her scythe.
"Don't say that, you're like clockwork."
Mary left the coffee in the middle of the table. He stared hypnotized at the light smoke coming from the coffee. He took the notebook, the pencil and began to write the first thing that came into his head; automatic writing, they tell him, because for many years he has not been able to write a paragraph of fiction, he only writes the crazy things that come into his head, waiting for the desire to invent and tell stories to return.
Image source: Pixabay @talentclub
