Purple Inked Names

Tuesday morning just isn’t the same without a stop into the local coffee shop, notebook tucked under my arm and a delicately steaming cappuccino to help me pass the time into early afternoon. Except today isn’t Tuesday, after all, is it? No, it’s Wednesday. Somehow even my little black book and I can’t keep track of these awkward days passing a little too swiftly - even for me.

As I meander my way to a table - not my usual, because why would anything be usual when I’m here on a Wednesday? The barista who typically remembers my order is not here. I don’t even remember my order. So I suppose today I’ll try something new. Then mosey over to a table I don’t know the space or dimension of. Open my flat laying black notebook, find my purple gel pen, and daydream about anything and everything.

Eventually, my bizarre new drink is ready - steaming and green. Some matcha raspberry latte thing. Something that inspires this line: emerald green whispers waft up from the mug you gave me - I should read your tea leaves, but I don’t know if matcha leaves any behind or even if you’d want me to. And a tall man with wavy auburn hair passes by. He stops, head tilted towards the page, admiring the pen scribbling its way across a page he’s never held.

“What is that you’re writing?” He asks gently, “Also great choice of drink, I’ve got one coming too.”

Startled as can be, no one ever talks to me here on Tuesdays, “Uh, it’s a potential poem, and thanks… I’ve actually never tried this one before.”

“A poem?”

“Yeah, lines in verse… the kind of awkward rhymes kids would write in school.”

“I doubt that kids know what matcha is, or have the kind of style you seem to.” He nods, understanding where my line is headed.

“Would you like to join me then?” I ask as I move my purse from the empty space across the table.

For a moment he considers this, looks back to the bar where his drink does not yet sit, and pulls out the chair. “If you are sure you don’t mind,” he says after already settled in across from me.

Silence weaves its way around us, the coffee shop is entirely still for what seems like an eon - but most likely remains a minute or two at most. Something about the shadows his hair casts on the table inspires the next line: Flickering memories, like half-remembered lights in the basement, come racing at me with each new sip of this drink. With each breath of the stranger across the way. Something akin to a lesson I should have already learned about befriending the darkness of night, the stranger across the room, or even just the fleeting ideas now resting upon this page. Something about you…

“How do you do that?” The gentleman across the table asks, his voice pulling me from the thought entirely.

It takes me a second to realize what I was doing, what he’s asked, who he is, “the poetry?” I respond.

“Yes, that. It takes you hardly any time at all to fill a page with something incredible.”

“Well, what do you do for a living? For a passion or hobby?” I asked without thinking.

“Oh me? I’m an accountant. My hobbies aren’t really anything of note. It’s hard to have time for anything other than work.” He quickly replies as he stands up to retrieve the drink that has just been announced for him. It really is a replica of my own, dusty green and steaming. Only his is resting in a flimsy paper cup with the store’s logo front and center.

I took that opportunity to decide how I’d be able to answer his question in a new way. As he takes his seat again, strangely elegantly, I smile, “Well, if that’s the case, I don’t suppose you’d be able to understand. It’s just a matter of taking inspiration and meshing it with the thoughts and emotions. It’s so natural at this point I’d almost say it’s akin to breathing.”

There is a light sparkling in his eye, a wide smile creeping across his face, a spark that should be remembered for a future line as he goes to answer, “Something akin to breathing, eh?”

I nod as I pick up the pen and let it dance through the narrow grey lines on the milky paper in front of me.

“What do you do with the notebooks you’ve already filled?” He muses aloud.

Laughing, wondering where this is going, “Throw them in a box and consider them storage clutter.” I shrug.

“I’ll buy them off of you,” he instantly glimmers.

“Really?” I ask in shock. Complete and utter shock. Not even able to reach for a sip of my creamy green drink.

“Absolutely, how does $20,000 dollars sound plus I’ll buy you a dozen new blank books,” he offers holding his hand out for a handshake.

The barista behind the counter, the one who recommended this matcha berry concoction sparkles - as if she is the one being offered such a large sum for simply breathing. The coffee shop erupts with laughter and cheer. Maybe it’s nice to deviate from routine from time to time after all, or maybe, I should ask his name. Maybe so many maybes. So many lines begging to be etched in purple ink. How to answer? What to say?

“What do you want with them?” incredulous wonder seeps out.

His smile widens, “to read them endlessly.”

“For so much money? To a stranger?”

“I have a soft spot for poetry, for creativity in which I lack, for beautiful coffee shop strangers,” he sighs dreamily, hand still outstretched, “so how does that sound?”

Amazed, I nod, reach for his hand, and shake heartily. As I gather up my belongings, pack my bag, and write down the address of the storage unit where the boxes of books are being held, I can’t help but whispering, “What’s your name by the way?”

Instead of answering, he takes the little black book from me and grabs a smooth purple-blue pen from his shirt pocket. He drafts up a contract, signs his name at the bottom of the page and motions for me to do the same. I suppose that’s all the answer I need, on an a-typical Wednesday morning in a coffee shop I will forever frequent - no matter the day of the week. And at least now my inky ramblings have a home with a man named Nick.