I am sitting at the window counter of a coffee shop in the square. The stool I sit on is too tall for the counter—or the other way around—so that I bend my back to assume my regular writing posture. I’m auditioning places to write regularly (need one close to home for weekends; my house is too distracting), and I realize that if I were to go with this choice, I’d need to forego this window view—of not much, of the street, of the commuter rail—for a seat at a small table. My would never survive otherwise.

I like this place. I am entranced a bit by the unbroken buzz of voices speaking a language I don’t understand. Albanian, I believe, based on the small flag that hangs behind the register. Today, my heart sank when I saw a framed photograph of the owner and Scott Brown hanging next to it. “Great food, service, and smile,” Brown had written next to his signature. Autograph, in this case, I suppose.

The chai here isn’t quite right, either. The mix is too sweet. They have another kind, but I suspect from the “tiger spice” title that it may be too strong, a little too spicy. I feel like Goldilocks when it comes to chai.

A couple’s voices speaking English breaks into my space here at the counter. An older couple, drinking cappuccinos. I hear talk of the gunk in one of their eyes, of the performance of Beatrice last night in a Shakespeare play I can’t remember the name of. I feel a bit like Harriet the Spy. The woman rocks herself back and forth to propel herself out of the chair, grabbing her canes to make her way back out the door.

It’s not an ideal place to write. It’s not without faults. But perhaps that makes it perfect? Will I need to wait until Elizabeth Warren wins the election to make myself a regular? Decide on a different drink of choice? Find another spot nearby? Or realize that it’s all besides the point? A writer writes. (What cranky old writer said that? It escapes me.) I need to just write.

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Things I dream about related to writing: