Nanowrimoing is hard....

“So she told him that her name was Margaret, but he insisted to call her Maggie. She hated being called Maggie, and told Mr. Kaster every chance she had, which were few and far between. Margaret knew that he must have a reason to call her that horrid name after countless times of correcting Mr. Kaster.

“Still, she would see him often, and often he would incorrectly address her. Margaret knew she was abrasive, and did nothing to change it, except when he called her Maggie. Something about the nickname softened her, made her vulnerable. She loathed every second she spent with him, and attempted to keep as formal as she could, but he introduced her as Maggie to-”

“-This Story’s boring, and you sound like you’ve practiced it a million times.” Jon said. He was tired of the way Shannon would ramble on and on about stories. She had so many stories. Sometimes they were interesting, sometimes they had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Jon thought that she was scared of silence. He noticed that if a conversation lulled he could count on the familiar ‘so…’ which marked the beginning of her story. Sometimes they were genuine, and Jon could recount many entertaining stories that he could not determine if they were myths, urban legends, or personal accounts. He didn’t care all the time, but he wasn’t into her rehearsed stories. He scanned the page of his book for the word ‘copasetic’ and failed.

“Well what do you wanna talk about, Jon?” He kept his eyes on the book in front of him. Shannon felt the inside of her right palm and traced the lines in her skin. “Let me see your hands.”

“Damnit, Shannon. Why can’t we ever hang out in silence? Is it that fucking hard? Just don’t say anything. Here, try it.” Silence. She opened her mouth, but before a noise could squeak out Jon raised his hand with the index finger towards the ceiling. Jon kept his gaze in her direction and returned to the book when he was confident she would not say anything. He turned the page and scanned again, that time looking for the word ‘collection.’ He never read a book, but always looked for specific words, usually words that are not common in everyday stories or affected his general mood.

“So-“ Jon slammed his book closed. The bang halted any words that Shannon tried to continue with. He reached in his pocket and grabbed his pack of cigarettes with a book of matches folded into the front flap. He looked at her with his best portrayal of sarcasm.

“Please, tell me everything.” His stare was cold and unblinking. “What? Now you’re quiet. I’m listening. Tell me more about that bitch Maggie.”

“Her name is Margaret.”

“Whatever. She’s not even real.” She looked hurt.

“She’s not a bitch,” she mumbled under her breath.

“She’s not real!”

“How the fuck do you know?! You never even listen to my stories.” He listened to every word she had ever said to him. He always did. There were voices he could not ignore: his mother, his ex-significant other, and Shannon. He broke the line of vision connecting their eyes, took two cigarettes from his pack, and took the matchbook from the front of the pack. He struck one match and lit both cigarettes.

“Do you want one?” He handed her one of the cigarettes.

“I thought you were quitting.” He wanted to say something to the effect of ‘shut the fuck up,’ but he bit his lower lip instead. Shannon took the cigarette and rested it between her cherry red lips. Jon started to count the seconds before she spoke again. When he reached seven he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he jumped in his seat and turned to see who had arrived.

Xander towered over him and at his sight, he stood from the uncomfortable café seat. The wind blew through Xander’s stringy brown hair and despite how unattractive he seemed, he had the confidence of a model in a photo shoot. His clothes always matched and looked fantastic, as if a team searched his closet for the best possible outfit to complement the day’s weather. Today it was a flowing button-down shirt with a grey a-shirt underneath just barely hinting at his abdominal muscles. Jon extended his hand and Xander grasped it with fervor and excitement.

“Hi Xander,” Shannon said, trying to be coy and flirtatious. Jon thought that she came off as a shallow high school cheerleader adoring the quarterback. It made his stomach lurch. Xander blew her a kiss. Jon cocked his head and raised his eyebrows at her.

“What?” She scowled at him. Jon held fast his stare.

“Am I interrupting something?” Xander swayed on his feet: left to right, right to left. Jon looked up at him and smiled. He couldn’t help but be charmed by Xander. He tried to think of a time someone was angry or upset with Xander. He wondered if Xander had ever lost a fight, or if he had ever been in a fight.

“Caffeine. Anyone want some?” Jon stood and looked from Shannon to Xander, back again, and slowly walked away. He saw Xander slowly sit where he had just left, and turned his head so his periphery no longer contained Xander and Shannon.

The door to the coffee shop was heavy. “The Underscore” was written in bold letters across the full-length glass doors. When closed, the metal grates reminded Jon of a gate to the castle of espresso, the café was the moat filled with the watery ideas of the hipsters and business types. Jon was a bit of both, displayed by his worn suit and his 500 dollar un-tucked Italian shirt. In certain contexts it would seem like a paradox, but Jon portrayed both the urban professional and the poor artist he longed to be. The neon analog clock on the wall seemed stuck at ten minutes before ten.

“Morning, Jon.” Jon scanned his brain for the name of the coffee attendant. He remembered that it was an androgynous name, something like Jamie or Jessie. He felt foolish when he looked at the small piece of plastic that said “Ash” underneath “The Underscore.” He tried to not look obvious when he glanced at the name tag, but couldn’t help but see some disappointment in Ash’s eyes. Ash kept smiling. Jon knew what it was like to work in a place where smiling is mandatory. He knew how it felt when a client forgot a name, and how disappointed when people would address him as Joe, Jake, or waited until after he gave away his name to be addressed properly. Jon decided not to call him by name. Jon smiled in an apologetic way, slightly embarrassed.

“You making the drinks today?” Jon searched behind the counter for other workers. There were none behind the ancient espresso machine, and no one was found behind the trays of bagels and pastries.

“I’m the only one here. The other two bailed on me. Something about worker’s rights, but they’re just fucking me around. Some kind of birthday tradition.”

“It’s your birthday?” Jon checked the contents of his bag mentally, trying to figure out if he had a suitable present for a twenty-something male coffee shop worker.

“No, it’s Colin’s. That’s why he left. Took Shira with him. I think they went to see strippers or something. Bastards.” Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t think of one trinket in his bag that would seem acceptable as a birthday gift for Ash.

“At least you’re not too busy,” Jon looked around The Underscore, away from Ash with his head towards the cash register. There were only a handful of people sporadically placed around the tables. He saw Shannon through the window but couldn’t tell if Xander was still there. “And I’m gonna make it easy.” Ash glanced up at him. A modest smile overtook Ash’s face, but Jon overlooked it. “Just three medium coffees,” Jon requested

“How about two and a large? You always get a large.” Jon searched his pocket to see if he had enough cash. He did not want to use his card, but felt obliged to after Ash remembered his order. Jon could not help but looked surprised when the total came to two dollars. He knew that Ash had discounted his drinks, and once again remembered why he was a regular at certain places. He handed Ash a five dollar bill and smiled, thanking him. Jon returned to his friends outside.