It was a Friday night, the first Friday of the New Year, and I was about to head home feeling half-relieved and half defeated over not having anything planned for the night. It was a rollercoaster ride, the year that just finished, and I told myself to slow down for awhile to reassess my life before I dive into that pool again.
As I was nearing the terminal, I felt a sudden surge of spontaneity get hold of my feet, pulling at them to the direction of the nearest Starbucks. I just bought a copy of Reader’s Digest Commemorative issue and the thought of spending an hour or two reading was irresistible. While this little voice was talking I was fully aware that I was making a small circle as I spun in place, indecisive for a few seconds, as people who just crossed the street avoided a collision with a girl in mid-calf boots.
I gave in and sauntered towards where this shared sanctuary was, smiling to myself because I listened to my own impulses. I need this quiet time alone. I miss reading. And if I want to write more, I need to read more, I thought. The things I discover when reading has always fascinated me and writing came naturally after that.
I walked in and was glad to see my favorite spot, a corner high table that’s partially hidden, unoccupied. The barista was all smiles as I told him to give me the short White Chocolate Mocha with a ham and cheese croissant. He thought I was a call center agent getting my caffeine fix for the night. I politely said no and smiled back.
I plunked down my hollow block of a bag and sat on the wooden high chair, already looking forward to reading. As my order was set on the table (aah, the things you enjoy using your womanly charm), I eagerly opened the magazine and tried to pick what story to read first.
I let myself go for the next one and a half hours, giving all my attention to the printed words in front of my eyes. I had nothing else to think or worry about. I felt the little knots in my head untangle themselves as I read about the Titanic, George Haley and a boy who got “a kind of magic” in the form of carbon paper as a Christmas gift. They were stories from another century which offered imagination and nostalgia, an uncomplicated time when I believe people were more in the moment.
It was pure solitude. My mind was cleared of the clutter that the work days tended to make, my senses suddenly more keen to the soft yellow lights, the smell of coffee, the jazz music in the background. The chatter around me sounded more like a hum, blending into the music and the whir of the blender. I settled back in my seat and people-watched while draining the last dregs of my coffee.
Feeling inspired and in a haze, I finally got out of there by 8:30PM. The night was still young. I inhaled deeply and let it fill my lungs while walking, the air still with a hint of the holidays. On the way home, Ryan Tedder’s voice filled my ears with Mercy as I looked out through the window and watched white stripes dart in and out of sight; the trees, concrete and lights, celestial and incandescent, blurring into one enormous symphony.
It was a Friday night well spent.
