A candy-striped awning trimmed in black, its edges tickled in fringe, dances brightly in the breeze," many pass by with not so much as a glance; though, the tasteful entryway sweetly invites admittance. A brightly plumed pen graces the wavy glass window of a sturdy mahogany door, the elegant gold leaf lettering above it simply states, "The Writer's Café."
Finally, the stride of a patron slowed, and they peered through a thin lace curtain. Their smile offered must have been reciprocated from within because it grew wider. The door opened in silence, letting soft conversation come forth. The tables offered small intimate settings, and a long, friendly bar with red backless stools swept gracefully along one side of the room.
Here, at the café, you will not find tablecloths but poems laminated upon each table. These works are not selected for the authors' names, but because of one simple truth, they each stir the reader.
There is no waitress at the café … you must pour your own drink. While you're up, top-off the cup of the person next to you and strike up a conversation. Hopefully, you will be inspired to make a new friend.
Though, some enter out of curiosity to kill a little time, most carry words in hand, with some sort of device to make more. A day never passes without a poem being recited or alternate endings cast buoyantly into the air.
Lining a windowless back wall is a row of booths. They are encased in mahogany panels making cozy little alcoves. In the far-left corner, the incessant staccato tickety-tack SOS sound of a typewriter sings its "end-line-ding, ziiip-return" chorused song. The steady stream of telegraph-like keystrokes makes the patrons grow restless. A quarter is tossed in the jukebox. Etta sings, "At Last." A few stop to let the music carry them far away; others set their pens in motion.
One might notice a simple man with curly brown hair who never reads, regales, or writes a word. Like a wooden Indian, he stands stoically by the payphone, with hat in hand. He may have even gone unnoticed, except for one small detail; he returns promptly every day at 1:00, leaving at 2:00. No one gossips about this daily occurrence, though, undoubtedly, an internal dialog occurs throughout the café.
Today, as the man left, I watched his index finger trace along the edge of a poem on one of the tables. Curiosity washed over me; so, I strolled over to the spot where he'd stood, and like an echo in time, I, too, traced the place he'd declared. Then, poured myself a stiff drink. Slowly, I noticed a few more do the same. I smiled, certain we had all pondered the meaning, and in turn, began to write.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
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