The Author was writing angrily on her laptop while she waited. The Wednesday night writing cafe was to start in 16 minutes, and she hadn't had dinner yet.
Earlier that day, the Author had packed her lunchbox with delicate hands. The delicious food was safe in her backpack, and all was well.
When the Author had arrived at the location of the Wednesday night writing cafe and was about to bring her freshly microwaved dinner back to her table, she dropped the lunchbox.
This was strange, thought the Author and other people around her. The lunchbox hadn't been too hot for her hands, nor was it slippery. Despite that, the lunchbox fell swiftly though her hands and shattered against the linoleum.
The Author picked up the large pieces of glass and swept the floor for the rest. While carrying the remains of her dinner to the trash, one could hear her mumble curses that would cause the toughest sailor to blush. Her stomach rumbling like a summer storm when she threw her things into her backpack and rushed to the nearby store to fins herself some dinner.
In the store, she was greeted with shelf after shelf of disappointment. Her hunger and sour mood made her picky, any old frozen ready-meal wouldn't do. At last, she found something that would suffice, threw it into the basket with two mandarins and rushed to the check-outs to be greeted by long lines. She'd bounced her leg impatiently, money ready in her hand. When she'd finally paid, she ran back to the location of the Wednesday writing cafe, put the new food in the microwave and sat down to wait.
And there she's sat, still at the table on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The steady hum on the microwave in the background. Other regulars and new faces of the writing cafe started to arrive, and while the Author did enjoy the small talk, she was still hungry. Her fingers typed furiously on the keyboard, sentences flowing from the keys to the screen.
At last, the food's ready. The microwave didn't get to finish its angry beeping before the Author had run to it and grabbed her food. This time she didn't drop it, no way she would. The Author sits down at the table and throws the scalding food down her throat. Her anger and irritation dissolving with every bite.
When she swallows the last bite, the Wednesday writing cafe was declared open. With a heightened mood, the Author threw the frozen food container in the recycling bin and walked through the now unlocked door to the Wednesday writing cafe room.
With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, the Author went on to continue writing. This time with less anger and a soft tip-tap sound coming from her fingers.
Earlier that day, the Author had packed her lunchbox with delicate hands. The delicious food was safe in her backpack, and all was well.
When the Author had arrived at the location of the Wednesday night writing cafe and was about to bring her freshly microwaved dinner back to her table, she dropped the lunchbox.
This was strange, thought the Author and other people around her. The lunchbox hadn't been too hot for her hands, nor was it slippery. Despite that, the lunchbox fell swiftly though her hands and shattered against the linoleum.
The Author picked up the large pieces of glass and swept the floor for the rest. While carrying the remains of her dinner to the trash, one could hear her mumble curses that would cause the toughest sailor to blush. Her stomach rumbling like a summer storm when she threw her things into her backpack and rushed to the nearby store to fins herself some dinner.
In the store, she was greeted with shelf after shelf of disappointment. Her hunger and sour mood made her picky, any old frozen ready-meal wouldn't do. At last, she found something that would suffice, threw it into the basket with two mandarins and rushed to the check-outs to be greeted by long lines. She'd bounced her leg impatiently, money ready in her hand. When she'd finally paid, she ran back to the location of the Wednesday writing cafe, put the new food in the microwave and sat down to wait.
And there she's sat, still at the table on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The steady hum on the microwave in the background. Other regulars and new faces of the writing cafe started to arrive, and while the Author did enjoy the small talk, she was still hungry. Her fingers typed furiously on the keyboard, sentences flowing from the keys to the screen.
At last, the food's ready. The microwave didn't get to finish its angry beeping before the Author had run to it and grabbed her food. This time she didn't drop it, no way she would. The Author sits down at the table and throws the scalding food down her throat. Her anger and irritation dissolving with every bite.
When she swallows the last bite, the Wednesday writing cafe was declared open. With a heightened mood, the Author threw the frozen food container in the recycling bin and walked through the now unlocked door to the Wednesday writing cafe room.
With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, the Author went on to continue writing. This time with less anger and a soft tip-tap sound coming from her fingers.
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