The Barista who didn't like Coffee

My dog gets his day but I don't

coffee: noun

/kɒ-fi/'

a brewed drink made from the roasted and ground beans of a tropical shrub.

eg: "a cup of coffee"

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So, there I was, a young writer who couldn't find a plot if I tripped over it. Despite my utter lack of ideas, my spirit refused to be dampened. Every weekday evening and Saturday afternoon, I'd take a walk with Paulo, my corgi, to the Starbucks down the street, and spend a few hours sipping on a cup or two whilst staring at my laptop, occasionally typing out a few words which I'd unfailingly erase again.

The only upside to this story is my best friend Brenda.

Brenda Michael was a twenty eight year old college dropout with enough piercings to put a metal detector out of commission. She'd mostly be seen in or around Mixers, the record store three streets over, or !nked, the tattoo salon where she worked briefly until she sneezed whilst tattooing a customer. No body got hurt,of course, but some poor businessman now has ' Cady is my angle' tattooed on his left shoulder. Clad in black and creepily stealthy, she is a creature of the night.

However, when she isn't cos-playing the lord of darkness, she straps on a green apron and serves coffee to caffeine lovers much like myself. When we met a year ago, I was so ridiculously confident about my future as a writer that I sat Brenda down and explained to her in detail exactly what I intended to do here.

After a session that lasted two long hours, we exchanged numbers and haven't stopped talking since. Now I think she must have found me extremely amusing, like a one-legged parrot who could recite the pokemon theme song.

A few months into our friendship, I think I must have had an influence on Brenda because she began to realize that serving coffee to people who leave shitty tips for her wasn't her dream. If I could leave home to follow my dream of becoming a writer, she decided she was going to follow hers too-becoming a singer. So for the last three moths, Brenda has been in and out of recording studios trying to get someone's attention. Unfortunately, the most she's been able to score are a few nights in pubs. But she's always hoping for something big to happen.

That brings us to the beginning of my story, where I'd come to realize coffee can bring you a lot more than just a few hours of energy.

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'Sylvia Martin looked down at the vast city beneath her, and she felt a thrill of responsibility. It was her duty to be this city's protector, and she was ready to take on what challenges lay ahead...'

"Eugh, what are you, thirteen?" Brenda's husky voice muttered from behind my back. I sighed and held my head in my hands. She was right. The opening sounded like the beginning of a middle-schooler's essay. "I can't help it," I said, erasing what I'd written, "today's rough."

Brenda tutted and wiped the remnants of my latte off my table. "It's alright, honey, we all have those days. Would you like another one?" she asked, pointing to my almost empty cup.

I nodded and shot her a thankful smile. We both knew that on days like this, when I've been sucked dry of any inspiration, I'd go through at least three venti cups of a hot drink. Pathetic, yes, but some part of me truly believed that caffeine was the cure for writer's block.

"Maybe I should just stop writing like I do," I said, as Brenda brought me another coffee, "write a crime mystery instead of just plain ol' fiction. Like Jeffrey Archer. He has like a billion best sellers, so those kind of books must sell well." Brenda furrowed her eyebrows and placed her hand on her hip.