Birds of a Feather

Chapter Three

Before that Tuesday night in January, I'd only visited Madison Ave Cafe once. I'd only mozied down the few blocks to get a decent cup of coffee, but the line was outside the door by 8am. Apparently, the cafe had some of the best breakfast and specialty coffee available in the area. With few other options--unless I wanted to bear the burnt taste of Starbucks--I waited in the line for a latte. It hadn't been anything special, other than slightly overpriced. It was decent though and as I stepped through the door with the familiar tingle of a bell, I questioned why I never came back.

The waitress gave me a warm smile as I entered. She was an older woman whose hair was fading from blonde to a light gray, but you could only tell in certain lights. "Hi, go ahead and have a seat wherever you want. I'll be right with you."

There were few people in the cafe this time of night. It seems they were not nearly as popular for dinner as they were for breakfast. There were only three patrons and five people in the cafe, including myself.

First, there was an older man with white hair and a yellow legal pad, scribbling down notes as he also took bites off the black bean burger in front of him. If I had to guess, he seemed like a defense attorney working after hours on his case. His tie was loosened a notch and his handwriting became less readable as he got down the page.

Next, there was a middle aged Asian woman wearing those old foam headphones that used to come with walkmans. She too was taking notices, but every once in a while she would burst out with words in Spanish. I wondered why she came to the cafe for her Spanish classes. Maybe she was secretly working on it to surprise a spouse for their wedding vows? Or perhaps her family was fed up with her loud, definitely not correct pronunciations of Spanish words in the evenings. Either way, the staff seemed too polite to kick her out and would simply refill her water when it became half empty.

Finally, a teenager sat near the back of the cafe. He, too, wore headphones and his head moved in tune with the music. Based on the pattern, it was something with a heavy, steady drumbeat. Based on his dyed black hair and graphic band T-shirt, I'd guess classic rock or punk rock.

It appeared that he was the son of the waitress because when all of the patrons were settled and satisfied, she'd walk over and gently stroke the top of his head and come back with a refilled soda. A textbook lay open on the table in front of him, but I doubted he was paying too much attention to it.

It was then I realized that I had no idea who I was looking for. All I had was their student email address: cgray@uw.edu. I opened up my email app and clicked on our brief exchanges, hoping I could find their full name and picture. Instead, I was only met with the name "Cal Gray" and a large 'C' as their profile photo, the default for a student email.

"Cal Gray" could literally be anyone and I sighed a little as I took a seat at the nearest table. I started getting set up, much like I would for a writing group meeting. I pulled out my laptop and notebooks, not sure whether Cal would be more of a handwriter or typer. Everyone has their own style and preferences and to offer the best advice, you have to be willing to adapt.

"All right, honey, what is it I can get you?"

I hadn't gotten a chance to look over the menu. It seemed like this was the kind of place that most people came and already knew what they wanted.

"Just a Diet Coke is fine," I said, handing her back the menu. It was truly the minimum order, but I had already eaten dinner and didn't want to risk staining anything Cal brought for me to review.

The waitress nodded, not even bothering to write anything down. I took out my laptop and opened up my manuscript draft. My publisher was expecting my draft in two months and I was only about halfway through. In the romance writing world, I was lucky to get a deadline a few months out. In such a prolific genre, it was better to enter with a few completed manuscripts that you could coast off while you worked on your next one.