Dakota

Dakota took a long sip of her lemon honey tea, one teaspoon of sugar, and looked at the white page on the desk in front of her. She had some keywords scattered here and there, but nothing substantial. Ideas came scarcely and order was lacking, disjointed words that so stubbornly refused to draw a picture.

She had a white shirt with black buttons, and she wore pearl earrings that went perfectly with her smile. She peered into her page through thick glasses, as if this layer of glass gave her a sense of security and protection. She had a round, friendly face with a small flat nose, and her black eyeballs were carefully placed on an extremely white sclera.   

At this point, except for words scattered here and there, she had one line written on her page that held any promise:

"Their graves were marked with pale stones, no names, no dates" 

She did not make any progress on this idea for a couple of months now. It started from a newspaper story she read about a family finding a small graveyard by accident while camping. The story focused on the family but she was intrigued by the graves. Whose were they? how did they die? and why are they so unceremoniously buried? 

As it always does with painfully exquisite precision, the clock ticked, then, exactly 1 second later, it ticked again.  The wall clock hanging above the exhibition wall at the café. Slowly, she became aware of it, then weary of it, then irritation came into play.

She wandered into her doubt. She was always so fearful of failure, so worried about doing well. In school, she raised her hand and pandered to teachers. In the faculty, she pandered to professors. In life, she pandered to parents and friends. a real goody-two-shoes she was. Regularly exceptional, ordinarily spectacular, and more so the former than the latter.

She felt incompetent and hated it. she is used to being perfectly good at what she does. Her anxiety made her aware of her surroundings. The barmaid was moving around between tables in a haste, and her movement added to the anxiety. She became more and more aware of the noise of the people in the limited space. "How can I work with all this sound and movement?" she thought to herself, as she looked desperately to find solace. She felt the walls of the cafe closing in, the clock angrily accelerating. She saw the pictures on the exhibition wall and felt they were staring at her. She became self-conscious and felt eyes looking at her empty page, passing judgment.    

Her lemon honey tea was still there. She took another sip, she briefly remembered how she has always enjoyed this particular flavor. She used to drink it after lectures back on the faculty, on benches and on cafes, with people that have grown to become some of her best friends. Sweet memories brought warmness to her belly and calm to her spirit and she felt suddenly thankful. She closed her eyes for exactly 4 seconds, carefully timed by the ticking clock, and opened them again. she took another sip and looked around.

The cafe was still there. The barmaid was still busy as a bee on coffee duty. The pictures on the exhibition wall were still there, with kids smiling. People were still there, making usual conversation noises. The streets were still there, with cars, bikes, wheelchairs, dogs, and pedestrians. The sun was still there, and shone a merciful ray of light through the windows and on her right boot. Her page was still white. Everything was still the same, only more vibrant, its colors a bit more spectacular. 

She took another look at her near-empty page and adjusted her glasses. Frustration was still there, but it didn't matter. She would take time to fill up that page, and who knows whether it would be any good. All of this didn't matter, she thought, she wrote with herself as the audience anyway. and she'd love to read what she has to say. At the end of the day, as long as she kept breathing and pushing forth, Lemon honey tea will always be that sweet. 

"What more could I possibly hope for?" She thought, and her lips welcomed a discreet smile.