Yes, I should be writing a novel. Or an essay.
So instead I'm writing a story from nowhere that is really not part of the plan, but that is too tempting to resist. It's about crisp autumn days, a doctor working out of hours and the server in a deserted cafe.
No, that's not what it's about. That's how it looks from a distance. Up close, there are cakes under glass, plated and wrapped in cling film. A doctor with frizzy hair and tired eyes and a lost relationship. A server with dyed black hair and clear eyes and flawless skin and a bold demeanour.
That's not what it's about either.
Ah. Letting go. Maybe that's what it's about. I'll tell you when I've finished. Just now I'm going to hang around in that empty cafe and see what happens when the silence gets thick.