He was a writer, or to be more exact, he was trying to be a writer. He would sit for hours in front of his computer looking at the blank word processor where he was supposedly trying to write his novel.

Novel that never came, even after days, weeks and months.

He tried changing the place where he was writing. He sat in his bedroom, in his living room, in his kitchen first. Then he moved outside and sat in the garden, near the river, in a department store, and now he was in what he supposed would be his mine of gold. He chose one of the less known cafés in town, a place where there wouldn't usually be lots of people, put on his earphones and asked for a black coffee. The moment his espresso arrived he positioned his hands under his chin and looked at the word processor once again. After minutes, he moved his hands towards the keyboard and stayed there without moving. He was starting to lose himself again; he definitely hated this... not being able to write or to do anything with the stupid word processor that continued to be blank.

He moved his body against the chair and started looking at the ceiling.

-"ah, it's a weird colour white... snow white?"-

He had been so focused on the computer that hadn't looked around at the cafe. He sat straight again and looked around. There were other 10 tables, some with people and some without. Vases with little flowers on all of them, paintings at the walls, a huge list of cakes and beverages near the cashier and machines everywhere. So this was how a cafe looked from the inside. He looked at the waiters, 2 boys and a girl. Good looking as he expected, in every place you would probably find only good-looking people serving tables. He wasn't sure who of the three was the one that had given him his coffee, but the person would probably go to him again, he just had to wait.

He drank a sip of the thing that was almost cold by that moment, cold and flavourless. He had just remembered that he didn't like coffee that much. Idiot him trying to play at the professional writer buying coffee. He raised a hand a little and waited for one of the waiters to appear.

-"Can you bring me a tea?"-

An ‘immediately’ was the answer and he was left alone again until the waiter arrived again

-"It is ready sir, was the coffee not of your liking?"-

He stared at him for a moment thinking how idiotic he had been -"to be honest, I have never liked coffee that much and I just remembered"- the waiter smiled confused and left him alone again. It was then when the door opened and a girl entered the shop.

A plain girl, neither beautiful nor ugly, just a girl asking for something to drink. She sat in a lonesome table at a corner of the place, placed in a way where he could see her from the side. He wasn't sure about the reason, but he was attracted by her appearance and suddenly started writing...

"She was a nice girl, wearing a simple dress, with simple accessories, and asking for a simple coffee at a shop. She was alone, but it was because she liked being alone, not because she didn't have with whom to go..."

He stopped there; he was probably the only guy who would go alone to a coffee shop although he didn't like coffee. He looked again at her who had already received her cup and was drinking elegantly from it. With her two hands holding it as trying to capture some of its heat, she stopped just before putting it at her mouth and smelled the odour of that black beverage. He couldn't understand her actions, but thought them interesting and beautiful and continued writing.

"...She was elegant in her actions, how she held her cup, how she smelled the fragrance of the grains and how she cutely had a sip of the still hot coffee having to put it on the table again. She looked at the door, as if she were waiting for someone who she wasn't expecting..."

Then he looked again at her, his inspiration muse, and noticed that the door had opened and she looked happy at it.

A guy entered, maybe her brother, maybe a classmate, and maybe and most probably, her boyfriend. She looked at him and smiled as he sat near her in the table making it impossible for our writer to see her anymore. He moved against his chair again -"It was a good character, I think"-. He drank the last drops of tea and stood up to pay. After closing the door behind him, he looked and decided that he would go there again, anytime again, to write. Maybe about that nice girl or maybe about her mysterious friend. Who knows by now?