*Taps mic* “Testing… Testing” (An experimental excerpt from my new book…)

I never realized how sexy Americanos are, I thought, sitting across from him at an Ugly Mug Cafe in the heart of Seattle. With dark hair, blue eyes, and a grey shirt that was just tight enough, this was a picture I forever wanted cemented in my mind.

He had just asked me about what I wanted to do for a living. At first, I had simply shrugged, attempting an air of nonchalance, but he could tell I was holding something back. “Oh, fine, yes, okay. I want to be a writer…” My voice became lofty and I began to zone out, as I was prone to doing in the moments where I let someone in on my secret desire to abandon all and pursue my dreams. One life. It was slipping through my fingers, and I was going to write a book, goddammit.

“I want to be a writer… I want to make a living doing what I love, which is writing. I want to tell stories. My story. Other peoples’ stories, made up stories, stories of those who have gone before us. That’s my heart.

But… it’s hard to make a living as a writer…”

Before I trailed off he let out a deep sigh. “You’re telling me.” He said softly.

“Are you a writer?” I asked, trying to contain my giddiness. The only thing sexier than the image of this twenty-something sitting across from me drinking an Americano would be if he was also an artist.

“I’m a musician. I am a writer, in a way. I write songs. I relate to your statement far too much. I graduated from college with a degree, but I’m a shift lead at Starbucks. Like, what the fuck, world?! Can you cut me a break? I’m writing about the human condition and helping inspire something within people. That should be enough. But oh, no.”

Meeting my gaze, which had turned stoic, he laughed. “Sorry. That was a lot. I apologize. I just have very strong feelings about that.” He looked at me. I looked at him. “I mean, I guess it’s not working. I must not be doing something right if no one wants to hear my music.”

“I want to hear your music.” I said softly.

“Okay, I can play it on the way back to drop you off if you want.”

“Deal.”

We stared at each other for a moment. I was racking my mind for something to talk about, anything. He cleared his throat. “So…” He began. Oh, thank God, I thought. The awkward silence has been broken and I could finally begin to breathe again.

“How did your car break down?”

I sat there, puzzled. My car was fine. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you said you couldn’t meet me, your roommate would give you a ride here and asked if I could give you a ride back. I was wondering what happened to your car.”

I braced myself, trying to decide what truth I wanted to go with. Then I remembered. There is only ever one truth.

“Right, so, my car is fine.” Now he was the one with the puzzled expression. “I am kind of dissociative as hell and was almost in a major wreck last night. So, I’m still really shaken. I’m fine, my car is fine, everyone is fine. But…”

I trailed off, a shiver running down my spine.

“It almost wasn’t.”

“Oh.” He said, averting his gaze as I blinked rapidly and looked away. He tapped his fingers on the table.

“Anyway… Let’s hear that music of yours. We just got here, but we can hang out at my apartment if you want after we get there. The suspense is killing me, for real, Michael.”

He chuckled. “Oh, alright, if you insist.” He downed the rest of his Americano. Mine was already in a cup to go, as they had run out of mugs and I insisted Michael take the last one.

We nodded at the baristas as we left Ugly Mug and found our way to his black Toyota Four-Runner. He opened my door for me. He plugged in his phone to the aux cord, clicked around, and soon his voice came through the speakers. He pulled out of the parking space, putting his hand on the passenger side seat and looking back.

The song started out slow, but quickly picked up momentum. Soon, without realizing it, I found my head bobbing along to the beat. I turned it up. I looked over and saw that his face was red. It struck me what a vulnerable position this had put him in. Taking a piece of art you have created and sharing it with the world is one thing. Taking a piece of art you have created and sharing it with the girl sitting in your passenger seat is another.

The song came to a close and he quickly pressed the volume knob, turning the audio off entirely. “Well… I know, it’s not like… whoever, but it’s me, it’s real and raw and all the things– I wrote it after a breakup, you know, when all of the best music is produced.” He let out a lighthearted laugh. He looked ahead. He swallowed.

“I love it.” I said firmly. I meant it, too. “Is there more?”

We were about thirty seconds away from pulling into the parking lot of my apartment complex, but I was eager to soak up as much of him as possible. Shortly after having this thought I realized he must be on Spotify and made a mental note to add his music to every single playlist I had ever compiled. “Well, I have one more. is one more. But, it’s kinda. I don’t know. I don’t know if you’d like it.”

“Well, we definitely won’t know if you don’t let me hear it!” I said in mock outrage, taking it upon myself to press the volume knob and resume the music.

It was… Beautiful. It was about loving and being loved. I found myself lost in the music and soon realized that he had parked the car. His hand went to turn the key but I quickly reached out and placed my hand on his, signaling him to stop. I wanted to finish the song. “Don’t.” I said, in more of a whisper than I had meant to. The song was sensual. It was slow. It made me feel a longing.

“Don’t what?” He said, returning my whisper.

“Make it stop.” I responded, staring at his lips.

Soon both of us had leaned in and they were on mine. I could hardly hear the music over the pounding of my own heart. He pulled away, slowly.

We looked at each other as the song slowly came to a close.

~

I was sitting in my therapist’s office, the walls a deep blue and a large black and white picture hung smartly on the wall behind my therapist’s chair, sitting directly across from me. It was a picture of a bridge in downtown Seattle, the one I had spent the past two years fantasizing of jumping off of. I was yet to confess that it was the same bridge.

“Okay, but, like, my platonic coffee date bought my coffee and I cannot bring myself to throw it away. It’s in my refrigerator. It’s been five days. It’s going to, like, grow something.”

“Wait, pause. Is this the same platonic coffee date who kissed you in his car outside of your apartment?”

“Yes!” I sighed in exasperation, getting angry. Not with her, but with myself. As in, keep up, but I couldn’t keep up myself.

“And how is that platonic?”

Now I was frustrated with her. “Okay, ignore the fact I said platonic, that doesn’t matter, you’re missing the point. My date bought my coffee and I cannot bring myself to throw it away.”

She looked back at me.

“And this is a problem.” I emphasized ‘problem’ drastically, as if speaking to a stranger from another planet who spoke a different language.

“Why?” She asked. I knew, and she knew, and I knew she knew, but she played dumb sometimes as a tactic to get me to open up.

“Because literally I don’t know what the fuck healthy attachments,” putting the words “healthy attachments” in air quotes, I continued, “look like, but I know they sure as fuck do not look like that.”

She nodded in agreement, and then stated the obvious.

“You need to throw it away.”

“But it will make me sad.”

“Why?”

I huffed. “Because! It’s like that time in second grade when my dad came back early from a business trip to be with me when I was sick. He gave me a bag of Bugles, and I pretended that I had eaten them but really I put them under my pillow to save.”

She nodded silently once more.

“Okay… do you think you can throw it away when you get back to your apartment?”

“No.” I said plainly.

She looked at me. Sighed.

~

I played Michael’s music on a constant loop. I sang them when I didn’t have access to my headphones. In the shower, doing the dishes, driving to work. I was constantly playing the lyrics in my mind, over and over and over again.

One night I was feeling manic and dissociative. I knew what I was supposed to do when I felt this way. But what I was supposed to do and what I was actually going to do were two totally different things. So, naturally, I did exactly what I had been advised not to do, what I knew would not be the best but what I was instinctively drawn to do. I got in my two thousand eight Toyota Four-Runner and drove to a coffee house. Cafe Cubano, it is called. I had never been to this location before, but I had been to a different one once before with Stacey, last semester, when we were studying for finals. It was because of this that I knew the cafe had “upside-down hours,” as in, the hours were upside down, as in, when other cafes were open it was closed and when it was closed other cafes were open.

I walked in and seated myself. A waiter nodded to me. “I’ll be right with you.” She said with a tired smile.

I sat there, staring around the room, in my own world, which was definitely not the same one I was in. thirty minutes or so passed. The woman caught sight of me and scurried over apologetically. “I’m so, so sorry. I forgot about you.”

With a laugh that was positively too big for me, too big for anyone actually, I said, “That’s okay! You’re not the first!” The laugh continued. I slammed my hand on the bar, leaning back in the barstool with fits of laughter. The waiter smiled a nervous smile.

“I need a coffee!” I said a little too enthusiastically, out of breath, regaining composure.

“Right. I’ll just– uh– pour you a cup, then.”

She turned around, poured a cup, and turned back to me. Then she stepped away again, this time returning with a plate of pancakes she had just taken off the griddle. “How much do I owe you?” I rifled through my purse. I looked up. She shook her head.

“Thanks, pal!” I gushed, a little– no, way– too loudly.

Just then a voice boomed through the tall speakers on the other side of the room. “Now who is ready to par-tayyyyyyy this fine Tuesday morning?” I looked at my watch. It was, in fact, Tuesday, as it was now 2:03 AM.

“WOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I cried from my perch at the bar before taking a deep sip of my black coffee.

“Who’s our first volunteer for Tuesday morning karaoke?!”

Without a second thought, I jumped out of my seat, rushing to the stage.

“Looks like we have our first volunteer! What song can we get started for you, sweetie?” The man asked, looking slightly uncomfortable at my eagerness. No one in their right mind was that eager at 2:03 AM.

“Classy girl! By Michael Whitson!” I practically screamed, throwing my arms into the air and taking hold of the microphone.

Seemingly a little unsure, the man stepped off the stage and I began to cry out the lyrics like there was no tomorrow. No, tomorrow was today, today was my life, and I was going to live it. The next thing I remember is waking up in my apartment, the sun shining steadily through my blinds. I still haven’t gotten around to attaining curtains. I absentmindedly picked up my iPhone off the bedside table. Before pressing the home button I saw myself in the reflection, hair plastered to my face and mascara messily smeared. The screen read 10:05. Shit. I was going to be late to my shift at Starbucks.

—

I had a text from Stacey, the time received was four AM; so, at least I knew I had been in bed by four AM:

Stacey: I just saw your Instagram reels and stories lol what did you do

Lexie: I don’t know for sure. I know it involved Michael Whitson and free pancakes and karaoke.

Stacey: ???

Lexie: Idk. sounds cool. wish I coulda been there.