for June

1. No More Words

"Do you need a refill?" Tylor, the café owner and barista, asked on his way to the backroom, taking a bulging black garbage bag past Chad.

"Huh?"

"Working on something new?" Tylor asked.

He considered the question. "Trying to find something new."

Tylor hurled the bag behind the door and closed it back up. "Didn't spot any interesting people today?"

"Well, there's you."

"You can't always write about me." Tylor laughed, heading back to the coffee bar.

"If only that was the problem." Chad chuckled, like a weary kid about to step onto a giant Ferris wheel.

"What is the problem?" Tylor asked, taking over for the barista at the bar.

The familiar hiss of the steam wand heating the milk soothed Chad's forlorn heart. He hesitated, noticing other customers listening in on their loud conversation. "I... I can't write."

Tylor eyed the laptop with a knowing smile. "Ever considered writing, not typing? I heard it works for creative people."

Writing, not typing. What an odd, nostalgic notion, yet the desperate writer in Chad felt a jolt of motivation. He rushed to his feet and stuffed his belongings in his bag, waving a perfunctory goodbye in Tylor's direction. He foxtrotted out of the café with a spring in his steps.

It was a frosty morning. He pulled his collar up around his ears, tucked his chin in and carried on his march with a grin on his face. He headed for the Pitt Street Mall, battling the work crowd with their multitude of coffee cups, accosting puffs of smoke, or a dizzying array of scents. Something he avoided.

He hadn't written longhand in some time. The prospect of getting rid of his writer's block made his fingers tingle with anticipation, or it could have been the cold snipping at them. He didn't care. He could almost taste the words in his mouth, hear the phantom voices in his head, narrating a story, a story he could write. The thought made him wild with happiness, the first he'd felt since the event.

By lunchtime, Chad was back in his seat, hunched over a new notepad, scribbling away until his phone rang. It was her.

He stared at the screen, feeling betrayed by his otherwise trusted gadget. Should he take her call?

His heart winced at the memory—

'Remember, down on your knees, count to three, present the ring, do your spiel, and Voila, she'll say yes...' recalling Jo's words, Chad had gone down on a wobbly knee in the middle of the near-filled restaurant, amidst an audience. "Setal, we've been together almost three years."

"What are you doing, Chad?" She had stared at him over her menu.

... count to three, present the ring...

Counting to three, he'd held the ring up at her, pinched between his fingers.

... do your spiel...

"I... gosh, this is hard... I love you. I loved you the moment you took my coffee by accident and told Tylor off. I loved you the moment you asked me out on our first date. I have loved every minute since. I have a wonderful, gorgeous, intelligent woman in my life who loves me for me and not some imaginary character—"

"Chad—"

"Setal Ahuja, will you marry me?"

She'd risen from her seat. He had known what she was about to say: 'Yes, Chad Gilligan, the love of my life. I will marry you.'