Short Story

There’s this obsession with time. We constantly check as if at any moment we’ll drop dead and we would have missed out. Not sure on what exactly. Life is about missing opportunities and finding new ones. Some people just don’t get that. I watch those kinds of people frantically coming in and out of the train station. As if their lives depend on making it to the 7:45 train. I’m there since 6. I would be there earlier but the coffee shop just doesn’t open before. I am positioned in front of the window. My computer is usually open, although I’m trying to use my notebook more lately. I sit and I people-watch. I try to write observations. For example two days ago I noticed that the bald man with the green coat started wearing Nikes instead of his beloved dress shoes. I’m assuming that since he didn’t have a bag with him he’s not going to the gym. Maybe his feet hurt? Those dress shoes he used to wear never looked comfortable. 

Then there’s this couple, every single day the man used to walk the woman to train. Kiss her goodbye and then walk to a different station. Lately, I’ve been noticing him coming into the coffee shop after the woman went to the station. He sits in the back, and ten minutes after his arrival a tall man walks in and heads towards him. At first, it seemed innocent until I saw them kiss. People’s lives could be so fascinating at times. The smallest change can create such chaos.

I’ve written 33 unpublished novels on the mysteries of the life of other people. This is why I don’t sleep. I think too much about other people’s problems. At least that’s what my publisher says. I’ve tried to write about other things. I usually end up with the same storyline. Isn’t it what stories are usually about? Other people? 

I published three novels, five essays, and two and a half poems. It was in the early 2000s though, so not many know me anymore. Even all of those old-timey publishing companies have seemed to forget. I don’t write for them, I write for myself. I have money to live off of for the next 60 years. My ex-husband was arrogant enough to not care about getting me to sign a prenup. The novels have made decent money as well, but not enough to sustain an apartment in New York and 7 coffee cups a day. This is why my doctor thinks I don’t sleep, but what does he know.