Chapter 33 Marsh
Marsh
This is the first time I’m writing out of a coffee shop.
My preferred setting to write is at home: alone, dead silent, like a psychopath.
Coffee shops always felt like a place for people with imagination.
A place where the smell of java can get your creative juices flowing and the establishment’s New Americana playlist can make you feel you have something profound to say.
I never thought of my writing as something profound. It was simply work. Facts and figures that needed to be told. I viewed myself as a machine and that’s exactly how I worked.
But today, I’m trying something new. It seems like lately I’m doing a lot of that and I’m quite enjoying it.
Last week I got a tattoo of a swallow on the inside of my biceps—Sadie picked, and it was either a swallow or a marshmallow; this morning I went to a hot yoga class for the first time; and now I’m writing in a coffee shop.
I found a corner spot at a not-too-busy place in Highland Park, so I sit with my iced almond milk latte.
I used to be exclusively a hot coffee kind of person, but I’ve picked up a few habits for the better this summer.
Putting on my AirPods, I dive into a piece about the latest protest that happened in Downtown LA.
Forty minutes into my writing session, a woman with an NPR tote bag walks up to me.
“Hi,” she breathes out apologetically, “is this seat taken?”
Instinctively, I look around the coffee shop, and the spot across my tiny two-top table is now the only vacancy.
“Oh.” I gesture to the seat. “No, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” She smiles and then pulls out the chair. She hangs her tote bag over the seat and takes out a black binder and a pen.
Her blond hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head.
She has an oversize red cardigan and a white tank top underneath with a pair of baggy jeans.
She opens the binder and reveals a script of some kind with lines highlighted.
Her eyes begin to scan the pages, and she’s mouthing something to herself, stopping, and then jotting down notes next to the highlighted text.
My eyes revert back to my screen, and I continue writing my piece. When I finally finish, I figure I’ll stay for another hour and knock out my next story about a concert ticket scam.
“I’m going to get a cup of water.” I look at the woman across from me. “Want anything?”
Her gaze lifts from her page in surprise. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll have a cup too. Thank you.”
I return with two cups of water and place one on the table in front of her. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” she says, taking a sip. “So, what are you working on?”
“Just some work stuff.”
“Fun,” she laughs in response to my vague answer.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Memorizing lines.” She tips her binder toward me.
“You’re an actress?” I say and then instantly regret how stupid it sounds because what else would she be?
“Yeah,” she says as nonchalantly as possible. “It’s for a play happening at the Pasadena Playhouse in the fall.”
“Nice,” I say. “What’s the play?”
“Macbeth.”
“I think I’ve heard of it.” I squint. “Written by that guy…”
“William Shakespeare,” she says, amused.
“That’s the one.” I point a finger. “He’s making his rounds, isn’t he?”
She lets out a laugh. “Keep an eye out for him, he’s pretty talented.”
“I will,” I say.
“I’m Kathy.” She leans forward.
“Marsh.”
“Nice to meet you, Marsh.” She smiles. “So, do you do anything fun for work? Or are you not allowed to talk about it?”
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“Oh really?” she says with intrigue. I’m positive she thinks I’m a screenwriter.
“News writer.” I pop that bubble before she gets ahead of herself.
“Wow,” she says. “Okay, so not fun at all.”
I laugh. “No, not so much these days.”
We go back to our tasks, and about an hour later, Kathy starts to pack up her stuff. She stands up and throws her tote over her shoulder. When we make eye contact, I give her a nod.
“Hey,” she says, gripping her strap, “I know we didn’t really get to talk, but it was cool getting to know you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You too.”
“If you’re ever wanting to do another working session, maybe we could meet up again?”
The offer takes me by surprise. I’m not entirely sure if this is a friendly gesture or if she’s perhaps trying to throw the ball in my court. While I’m not at all looking for something, I try to not let an opportunity pass me by.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I say.
She passes me her phone. “Okay, cool. Here, put your number in and I’ll text you.”
I take her phone and am about to put my information in but then stop. “Actually, I’m kind of hungry now. Would you want to grab some food?”
“Yeah.” Her face breaks out into a smile. “Yeah, I’d really love that.”
“Okay, great,” I say, closing my laptop. “I’m about done here, let’s go.”
I pack up my stuff, and we find a taco joint up the street.
For the rest of the day Kathy and I talk about our jobs; she tells me about how she became an actress, how she moved here from Utah, and how she works a corporate job at a healthcare agency during the week.
I tell her about The Journal, going to school at USC, and how Sadie is my best friend.
By six p.m. she suggests going to her apartment in Glassell Park, and I willingly accept the invitation.
She has a blind rescue cat, navy blue kitchen cupboards, and a queen-size bed with pink and white duvet covers.
Her hair is much longer than I thought it was once it’s out of her messy bun, and she has a graze of freckles over her shoulders and a belly button ring.
We do all the things that would and should feel good.
She screams out my name when I’m behind her.
When we finally finish, we collapse onto her bed, and I don’t feel good about what just happened.
I wait until she’s fully dressed before I tell her that I’m not looking for anything serious.
“Oh,” she says. She mutes the volume on The Office and adjusts her position on the couch to face me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you earlier, but I just came out of a serious relationship. I thought I was okay, I really did, but you’re great and I don’t want this to be something you don’t think it is.”
“No,” she responds, putting up a hand. “Don’t apologize. Honestly, thank you for telling me. I much prefer this rather than me texting you tomorrow and having you not respond.”
“I am sorry, though.”
“It’s all good.” She smiles.
I throw my palms on the top of my thighs. “I, uh, guess I should get going.”
“Yeah, probably.”
I stand up and head toward the door to put on my shoes. “Thanks for today, Kathy.”
“Thank you, Marsh.”
We give each other a hug, and I realize I don’t even have her number. No trace of this person I shared an afternoon with.
The next morning, I go back to the same coffee shop and decide to write something different.