Writer’s Block
Her pen got caught on a thicker section of her wavy hair. She sighed heavily, pulling the strand loose from its organized bun that sat directly on top of her head.
She shook her pen free and used her other hand to begrudgingly tug the now ruined bun out from its binder. As her chaotic waves tumbled around her face, she let her forehead slam onto the desk. How can this story be so hard to write? She’d done this plenty of times before - read through the given prompt and respond with a fill-in-the-blank paragraph essay.
She let her head rise ever so slightly up off of the cool surface and squinted one eye to see clearly out of the other. Reading the prompt out loud; “Describe an event in your life that altered the way you looked at your world. In what ways did it change your perspective, and were you conscious of any changes at the time? Explain why.”
Writing about herself had never been an easy task. The countless journals with only the first few pages filled out, piled up in the corner of her closet at home could attest to this fact. Writing was simpler and came more naturally if she wrote about someone else, about their life, their choices, their sad, happy.... whatever endings.
Another exasperated sigh escaped her lips, and she rose, heading towards the makeshift pantry she and Jackie shared. Pulling the light oak doors of what used to be a TV hutch open, she rummaged through the bottom shelves until her hand emerged with it’s intended find. Pouring the hot apple cider mix into her favorite mug - black and boldly engraved with a bright gold script that read “brain loading... please wait,” she opened the door to the dorm hallway. The essay question ran circles in her mind while she made her way to the drinking fountain. As she pushed her mug up against the sensor, she allowed herself to recess into the memory that surfaced.
Her mother’s voice and a hand on her shoulder. She had left the window open that night, she loved falling asleep to the sound of rain, and she could still hear its steady beat as she attempted to clear the fog of sleep from her brain. Groaning slightly at her mom’s persistence, she rolled over and saw the look on her face. It was twisted in a way that she didn’t understand or recognize and has never seen since, her mom whispered, “honey, it’s your dad.”
The water from the dispenser overflowed from the mug, and the cold snapped her back to the present. She muttered a choice word under her breath, switching hands and shaking her wet hand free of the moisture.
“Whoa, there caffeine queen, want some coffee with that water?” Startled once more, she looked up and winced. Theo stood there with the most bemused smile plastered to his annoyingly clear complexioned face. She was not prepared to see anyone she should look half-way decent for, much less the tall, tan-skinned, objectively attractive guy from Journalism 206. Clutching the mug with both hands now for fear of losing all of its liquid contents, she blew a stray wave out from her face. “It’s not coffee; it’s cider.”
He chuckled. “Regardless, I think you may have overdone it a bit.” He paused, appearing to be inspecting her appearance. She tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. “I know you from somewhere, right?” He asked.
“I-“ she started to respond, but he threw up his hand, “Gimme a sec, I know this.” Squinting his eyes and pulsing his three middle fingers across his chin. “Professor McCarthy, Journalism, Charlie, right?” A look of victory lit his eyes and brought a smile to his face that flooded her with warmth and made her entirely too anxious all at once.
“You got it.” She smiled her well-practiced “polite smile” as her brain scrambled for what to say next while also trying to think of the fastest way out of this scenario. She thought quickly, not wanting to appear like an awful person - “It's um, Theo, right?”
“’ Um, Theo’ is pretty darn close.” The grin returned, and the full mug in her hands once again faltered, splashing over the side.
”Okay!” he laughed, and he took a step towards her closing the space between them. She was suddenly racking her brain, wondering if she had actually brushed her teeth this morning and wishing she’d put her favorite perfume on. His hands slid around the mug, lightly brushing hers, removing it from her grasp. The ease of his movements increased her heartbeat to, what she was sure, was an audible pounding. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m hoping barista is not on your resume,” he said close enough to her ear to give her goosebumps. He backed away, the confident smirk solidly in place. “How about we let the professionals take over and go grab a cup of coffee-“
“Cider,” she interjected
“Cider it is,” he grinned, reading her expression, and waiting for her response. She swore she picked up on the slightest hint of nerves flash across his face.
Before she could even formulate a way to shut him down nicely, she heard the word “Okay” fall out of her mouth.