Draft 27

I enlarged the font and reread the last paragraph.

“Melody closed her eyes and inhaled the warmth of Jeremy’s breath on her cold face. Trudging in the snow, checking on sheep out to pasture was not her idea of a good time. But there was something about Jeremy–maybe the twinkle in his eye, or his wry, Irish sense of humor that made her follow him anywhere. Especially when they stopped to warm up in each other’s arms.”

Then I quickly reduced it again and wanted to hurl.

That story wasn’t going anywhere. Just like my previous twenty-five weren’t, since I got sick of them right before or after the first kiss. Somehow, no matter how natural I tried to make them sound, a voice in my head screamed, “Cliche, Cliche, Cliche!” And I could not get it to shut up.

Opening a new Word doc, all my hot ideas chilled me to the bone. After an hour of staring at the blank screen with Gracie my calico rubbing against my legs purring, I had absolutely no words to show for myself. At that point, even a cliche or two would be better than nothing. After all, we writers don’t call them cliches anymore. They’re romantic tropes, and our fans love them.

Only I didn’t have any fans. Yet. So what did I know?

After nodding off at my desk three times, I knew I needed some coffee. I fed Gracie, grabbed my umbrella and raincoat, and headed to Cafe Comfortable, just down the block.

Along with hordes of undercaffeinated neighbors and tourists, dripping in ahead of or behind me. I queued up, scanning the drink menu I knew by heart. Rafa, the only barista on duty kept scanning the line behind me while I made up my mind.

“Okay, let me try the white chocolate raspberry mocha,” knowing that was too much sugar to perk me up. “Oh, and can you make it with soy milk?”

Rafa rolled his eyes. “Of course, Miss.” He let out a loud huff. “Whatever you like.”

Hey, Buddy, it’s not my fault it’s raining and the place is packed. And you’re here all by yourself. I said nothing, but while waiting for my drink, I couldn’t help but notice his deep brown eyes and how they stole side glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. What’s up with this guy?

When he handed me my mocha, he didn’t make eye contact.

“Grazie,” I said, anyway, and headed out the door.

On the way, it hit me. Why not put the pisser into draft 27?

It could be one of those enemies-to-lovers stories. They’re all the rage, and so, why not? The guy’s hot, and he knows it, and he’s bored with his job, and doesn’t care who knows that.

I’d been coming to Cafe Comfortable long enough to be ignored and insulted by his body language if not his actual words, which were pathetically few and far between. Sad, because even though he sees me almost every day, he’s never said hi or asked me my name.

Which is Angela, by the way. Angela Rae Bevins. Not that he cared.

But I’d show him. Stick him in my next story.

Thanks to that idea and the caffeine I’d inhaled on the way home, I hit the ground running. Or, at least, flung words at the page, typing my ass off, getting my story down before it decided to abandon me.

Now in my story, the barista I renamed Rudolfo, Rudy for short, didn’t stay grumpy. By Jamie—my new heroine’s third visit to Karla’s Kooky Kafe, he knew her name, where she lived, and that she was an assistant veterinarian, working her way through medical school.

Now the question wasn’t did he even see her? The question was, what did she see in him?

Well, as the author, I got to make that up.

Rudy was no slouch. He was in this country to get ahead. Starting with an education on her campus. In fact, he was in two of her classes. Anatomy and Physiology, as well as Statistics. He may have been so-so in stats, but he certainly knew his way around the human body and offered to help her with her muscle groups.

Why?

He was on his way to being a massage therapist.

So after three hours of inhaling formaldehyde and studying cadavers, he offered her a mocha and a message. Jamie threw caution to the wind and said yes.

Or so I wrote, long into the night. Long after Gracie gave up trying to get me to cuddle with her. But I was on fire, and wanted to get it all down before the story stopped unfolding itself in front of me.

Of course, the next day I woke up with a whopper of a headache. It figured. After popping some Ibu, I headed back to Cafe Comfortable on the theory that my head was pounding for more mocha.

The sun was out, and the line was short. And Rafa had some help.

When I got to him, he smiled. “I remember you,” he said. “White chocolate raspberry mocha, right?”

“Yes,” I said. ‘And I’ll have another.”

“Coming right up, Miss…?” This time, there was a question mark at the end of his sentence.

“Angela.”

“Beautiful name.” Rafa started to make my drink. “Soy milk?”

“Soy milk is fine.” I smiled back. “Thank you.”

When he handed me my drink, there was a business card tucked in the little cuff. I stepped over to the side and looked at it. One side was the logo for a massage school, and on the other a note from him: Looking for people to practice on. Interested?

Suddenly, every muscle ached. Maybe from all the sleep I didn’t get.

I knew the school. A girlfriend went there. I let her practice on me, and she was now over my price range. So, why not get in on the ground floor?

I scribbled my number on the card and handed it back to Rafa. He put his hands together and gave me a little bow. “Think about whether you want Swedish style or trigger points,” he said as I ducked out the door.

Walking home, it hit me.

I’d made that all up about massage school. Yet it turned out to be true.

When I got back to draft 27, I figured I'd better turn the heat up. And something too preposterous to be true.

Not only did the massage go swimmingly well, but after it was done, Jamie glowed from the inside out. That's when Rudy got down on one knee and proposed marriage.

“What?” Jamie asked, not sure whether to be shocked or confused.

Rudy laughed. “Not real marriage.

“Come again?” Jamie said, not sure she heard right.

“Yes, I need to get married. My student visa’s about to expire. And getting married will keep me here legally.”

“Or so you hope,” Jamie added.

“Or so I hope,” Rudy echoed, a flash of desperation in his eyes. “But it’s better than being locked up or deported.”

“Let me think about it,” Jamie said. Being happily married was something she longed for, fantasized about. But not like this.

“I’m not asking for your heart,” Rudy reassured her. “Just your hand…”

“Oh, so it’s just a marriage of convenience,” Jamie said, even more perplexed. It meant he didn’t love her. No surprise. But it would scare off any serious suitors.

“If you want to call it that…” Rudy said.

“What do you call it?” Jamie had to know.

“I’ve loved you since the first time you asked me for a cinnamon latte,” he said. ‘But now you’ve gone all mocha on me and I don’t know where I stand.”

Oh, hell. What did coffee flavors have to do with love anyway? “I don’t get it,” she said.

“I didn’t think you would.” Rudy’s eyes got moist. “I guess I better pack my bags.”

“No, wait,” Jamie said, unable to imagine him not being there to make her mochas and massage her tired muscles after a long day of dissecting. “I think we can work something out.”

Rudy’s face lit up. “Thanks be to God.”

That’s where I left Rudy and Jamie as I headed for the cafe to tank up.

When I got there, Rafa asked me if I wanted a cinnamon latte. How did he know I needed to cool it on the chocolate for a few days? But I couldn't resist an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie to tide me over.

In no time at all, Rafa handed me my latte and a little white bag. When I opened it, there was not only a cookie, but a little box. “What’s this, Rafa?”

He gestured for me to open it.

Oh, God. Let this not be a ring. Please. Let this not be a—and yet it was. Not a diamond ring, or even gold, thank God. A cheap dime-store pinky ring.

Rafa took it out and placed it on my finger. “Marry me, Angela.”

What the—?

“Are you crazy? I haven't even had my massage yet!”

He sighed. I know, but…La Migra. ICE. I’m scared. If I go back to my country—”

“Don’t tell me. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Then you understand.”

“All too well,” I said, since I’d researched this for my story. “But I need time to think about it.”

“That’s fair,” he said. “Tell me tomorrow.”

Oh, shit. I didn’t answer him. After all, I owed him nothing besides $5.75 for my latte and $3.25 for the cookie. I paid him, left a big tip, and headed home.

Once there, I knew what I had to do.

Not sure how to weave it into the story, but I knew what I had to write.

It was a tacky, corny scene. But in it, Congressmen and women of both parties came together and outvoted our crazy president’s hell bent vendetta against immigrants who looked undocumented, i,e. brown or black.

And when the crazy president vetoed the bill, they overrode his veto and cut the funding for ICE and Homeland Security. Suddenly, my new genre was fantasy.

Yes, it was a sharp left turn in my story, so I went back and, quick like a bunny, made Jamie an activist.

“Take that, Mr. Trump!” I yelled when that chapter was done. Then wondered how long it would take to take effect. Or if it even would.

The next day, I slept in late and was almost too groggy to write.

Time for another mocha.

When I walked into Cafe Confortable, Rafa was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a new-to-me guy at the counter, with a badge saying his name was Pete. Dirty blond-gray hair, scuzzy beard, pony tail, stooped over Pete, slow on the uptake, slow with the espresso.

“Where’s Rafa? I asked.

When Peter shook his head, I knew. “When?”

“This morning, bright and early,” Pete said. "Like they don’t got nothing better to do with their smug asshole selves.”

I looked at him in shock. “Is there anything we can do?”

He handed me my drink and sighed. “Call your Congressperson and come to the rally on Saturday.”

“I’ll be there!” I told him, much to my surprise. I’m a writer, not a fighter. At least I was.

But now, after all this, maybe it was time for a break. Maybe I should try massage therapy. After all, my fingers were quite strong.

And Draft 27 didn’t make me want to hurl. It made me want to cry.

This time, I let it.