Cloe Mathers

The Motherlode

The little café on Church street buzzed with the usual hum of activity belonging to small town coffee shops. The hum of the machinery, murmurs of people talking, and sound of coffee pouring was always soothing to Isabella Cadeaux. There were few places so conducive to writing as coffee shops, with their perceived air of invisibility and a sense of tranquil coziness. It was easy for anyone to slip into a different skin than to be all of who they were. To hide behind a computer instead of face their reality.