Mystic Mocha

She was looking for inspiration, for just the right place, for just the right feeling. But it wasn't here.

It wasn't this wooden park bench, awash with a hint of purple. The table's surface weathered by the sun or by another writer perhaps, whose pen excavated the beginnings of a story. It wasn't here. This would not be the place for any of her memories to begin, especially when she was hungry and breakfast wasn't served after three.

But the cafe knew to play Fleetwood Mac, long enough for her to enjoy a scone and two shots of espresso.

"If it's too strong, you can water it down" the young barista explained.

It was too strong, she remembered, the words he wrote.

In those letters he sent her from Hawaii to Los Angeles. He raced across the island to listen to the songs that she said, kept him alive in her heart over the summer. And so their love began, with Fleetwood Mac, the Pacific Ocean and the rest of August between them.

Sitting there on the purple park bench, she stared at the paths before her. Mission. Alabama. Monroe. Signs stood everywhere, each adding to the cacophony of unwelcome signs. This too convinced her that it wasn't here.

The sun a warm blanket, the soft breeze a welcome chill.
The color, her favorite hybrid of red and blue.
The quiet, despite the voice in everything beside her.

This would not be the place, the temperature, or the muse.

So she left the sun and the music. She left the scone half finished, the coffee, strong. She loved this place, but she decided to go. She was hungry for more even though she didn't know what more meant.