On a daily basis, the only times I speak to another person are in the morning when I wish my husband a good day and at night when he returns. Of course, I’m constantly talking (and singing) to the doggies, but as much as I’ve petitioned for it, they aren’t yet classified as “people.”

I was musing about this with my husband last night, and he pointed out that my writing day might be a bit chattier if I actually left the house. He then painted a picture of me in a coffee house, sitting in a quaint corner, typing away on my laptop, until someone I knew walked in.

“Think of the writing material you could gather just observing people around you,” he said. “Think of how nice it would be to run into someone you know and actually have a conversation. In the middle of the day.”

Immediately, I did think about it. I imagined myself sitting in the chair, looking out the window, words suddenly spilling out of me and onto my screen, so inspired was I to be in the real world instead of closed up in the basement.

I went to bed last night already feeling re-energized.

But then, I woke up.

And I thought about sitting in that coffee house.

I would need to shower before I got there, since I am, after all, a lady. I would need to pack up my computer. I would need to cage the dogs in for several hours.

But then I would get there, and everything would be great.

In the shower, I thought about it some more.

My tea would be too hot for quite a while post-purchase, so I would have to worry about positioning it in a place on the table where I could be sure I wouldn’t knock it onto the floor or, worse, my laptop.

The spindles in the back of the chair would start to feel uncomfortable on my back. But I couldn’t move to a couch because then I’d be sitting too low. And I couldn’t move to a bench because then I would be too upright.

The door would open pretty frequently and because it’s a cold day, there would be a frosty waft that would find me no matter where I sat. I could live with this for the first few times, but I think it would keep happening. So that permanent chill would set inside my extremities, which would make me wish I had a space heater under me.

One thing I couldn’t do is fend off the cold by putting on my puffer coat, because typing in a puffer coat is uncomfortable on account of the puffy sleeves.

I would forget about my tea until it was too late and then it would be too strong. That would be a shame.

Then I would realize that I hadn’t written anything. But words still needed to be written. And now most of the morning would be shot on account of how long it took me to get ready to get to the coffee house. Because I’d even put makeup and jewelry on so the people I met would think I was, really, a very put-together person.

My ring would bother me though. You know, my turquoise ring that says to the world, “Hey, I’m interesting because I’m not afraid to wear a ring this big.” But the ring would get in my way as I typed, so I’d have to take it off and slip it in my computer bag. But then I would worry that it would fall out of the bag and I would lose it.

By the time I would finally run into someone, I would come across as distracted and, if I wasn’t careful, rude. I would remember that I hate small talk. I would think about trying to be entertaining, but then I would be too entertaining, and possibly frenetic, so they’d wonder if I’d slipped some bourbon in my tea.

And then once they’d left, I would revisit all of the impressively inane things I said under the umbrella of Small Talk. Like, about weather. And how I don’t drink coffee. And about the dogs.

Ugh. Poor Tilly and Fitz. They would be so lonely without me. Because, man, they love my singing voice.

So, that was that. I put on a pair of soft pants. I picked up my laptop. I headed to the basement. And I kept my mouth shut.

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