“Reading people is my job, Amy,” he says simply.
“Of course.”A blush creeps up my cheeks.“You’re clearly good at what you do.”The words taste clumsy and foolish as soon as they leave my mouth.
I press a hand to my forehead, wincing, as if I could physically block the rest of the conversation from escaping.
His low chuckle travels to my ears.“Well, I’m glad it all worked out,” he says, easing the awkwardness.
“Thank you.”It’s the safest response I can manage.
“So, is he helping you with your statement?”
“No,” I reply, relieved the conversation has moved along.“He didn’t offer, and I didn’t want to ask.He’s already doing more than enough getting those signatures.”
A thoughtful hum comes from his end.
I feel the need to fill the silence.“Not to worry, though.I’m on it.Even if I have to spend the entire night in my office.I will have those copies ready for Lou and Helen.Just like I promised.”
“Busy night ahead then?”Matthew’s question sounds more like a statement.
“Better than a lonely night at home, defeated.”The words tumble out unchecked.
I grimace at the ceiling.
Great.
“I bet,” he replies, his tone unreadable.
“I’d better get to it then,” I conclude, desperately needing to end this disastrous call.“Time’s ticking.”
After a beat of silence, he concedes.“Of course.Call me if you have any questions.Anytime.”
“Thanks.”I pause.“Bye.”
Dropping my phone onto the desk, I throw my head back, and let out a frustrated groan.
Darkness has long since fallen.Helen is gone, and the café beyond my office door is locked up.Hours later, the only result is a growing pile of coffee mugs and the tension knotting my shoulders.The computer screen glares at me, displaying a half-finished paragraph of stilted words.It sounds nothing like Maddy’s Place.
How do you capture a community’s heart on paper?
How do you fight a landlord’s greed with just sentences?
I stare at the blinking cursor.My hand clenches into a fist.
This isn’t working.
Typing formal sentences on a screen feels sterile.It’s wrong for capturing the soul of this place.
I push back from my desk, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper from my printer and a pen from the holder.I step out into the quiet café.Streetlights filter through the front windows, casting long shadows across the floor.The chairs, stacked upside down on the tables, look like skeletal silhouettes in the gloom.
The carafe I filled a lifetime ago is nearly empty, but I pour the dregs into a fresh mug anyway.Placing it next to the paper on the countertop, I pick up the pen, hoping the drag of ink on paper can unlock things the keyboard can’t.
Maybe if I just start writing, one sentence at a time, something will click.
Maddy’s Place is more than just a café.
No, too cliché.
I cross it out.
