Thirsty
By Janet Silber

What you have heard is true. I go to the coffee place to escape. To drink green tea. To see him. He dresses all in black and has a long gray pony tail, wears a black beret, and glasses sometimes. He is always busy-- writing furiously-- and his table is piled with lined yellow pads and books he's borrowed from the shelves at Borders. He always cocks his head when he writes, so that the sun streaks across his high cheekbones.
We both love how it's like a library here, only better, with all the newest books-- their covers still crisp and glossy, their pages smelling of fresh black ink. Occasionally, we look at each other, when my laptop boots up with its annoying jangle, like a rooster crowing in this solemn place of reading, writing, drinking and making subtle business deals. The store hums with Gregorian chants - peaceful music that gets under your soul and tries to lift it up.
I know he comes here for the same reason as I do; the solitude. Sometimes he crumples up a sheet of yellow paper and throws it in a little pyramid of such papers. I sometimes do that too; when a good idea has gone bad for me. We both have low levels of frustration. His name is Basil, just like mine is Jonquil. We're both tea people. I can't drink coffee. I don't need any more caffeine, amphetamines, cocaine, the sugar-rush. I do calming things now. Deep breaths, hot baths, saunas-- things that are good for me. Sometimes, it's hard sometimes to love myself enough.
I can't work at my house, the light is too dark, and the phone rings too often, the mess beckons and then laughs. It knows I won't pick up the piles of limp underwear or wash the greasy dishes, so neatly stacked by my significant other. I'll call him Bob. When I'm having a creative day, I can't do any hands-on work. It destroys my passion. Bob knows that, but he doesn't care.
We have a list on the refrigerator. We each have our jobs. My jobs are doing the laundry, washing dishes and feeding our cat, Zebra. Bob cooks, handles all the finances, the home repairs and grocery shopping. Every Friday, he does out my allowance. I get twenty-five dollars a week. I like to spend it here at Borders on books and journals and green tea. I only drink green tea.
Every Wednesday, when I come in at 10 o'clock, he's already here. His voice is low and a little bit rusty. He speaks like he doesn't use it that often, but I've heard it when he converses with the other regulars here. The old lady with the coronet of braids and the German accent, the black man who wipes down the tables, the young guy with the blonde brush cut and the laptop and the cell phone and the attitude. I must be the only person in all of Raleigh that doesn't own cell phone.
He only writes with an emerald green fountain pen. I can see the gold of the pen nib glint from where I sit typing on my laptop, here by the window. Today is a gray day. The sky is thick with clouds. The winter sunlight is pale and shines evenly through the plate glass window. I've set my mug of green tea on the wooden window sill beside me.
He's either working on a spy novel or one of those weird pulp-fiction/ sci-fi things. He's probably very good. He dresses like writing is a profession, like an actor, or a UPS driver; only with them, you can see their fine, tan, hairy legs.
His name is really Dave. So plain, so pedestrian. My real name is Lori. I changed it after I got my nose job. I don't really look all that different now, but I like it. My hair is red now, too. I've always wanted bright red ringlets. I think I'm really more of a red-headed person, a curly-haired person.
It's hard to be an artist. We have to be able to recognize each other. Sometimes when I go to a poetry reading and see some older matron, her hair a faded brown, her complexion blotchy and a set of gold reading glasses strung around her neck, I wonder where is your sense of drama? Can you really be an artist? Can a real artist look so plain, so forgettable? And then she reads a poem and her words just knock me out.
These are all important questions, my therapist says. And I know that Dave would agree, if he would only talk to me. If he could only see me. My poetry professor says that if I write just one poem a week, in a year I'll have enough for a chap book. I'm going to call it Thirsty, or maybe Thirsting; I haven't decided yet. Bob says I'm going to have to get a real job after I graduate next year.
I sip from my thick white mug. Dave is looking at me. His eyes are black like olives. I know he would understand.