The counter where I sit is sticky and has a faintly vinegary scent. Tucked in the corner, I'm removed from the general bustle of café. The occasional regular stops by to greet me with a quick, non-invasive hello.

The boy next to me is named Hunter. He looks sweetly sleepy, like he rolled out of bed, grabbed his ancient Mac with its hot pink case, and stumbled into Java Beach for coffee. 

The young woman next to him is nursing her hangover with a mimosa.

My Java Beach posse is gathered at The Table, like always. The day they aren't at The Table I'll know the apocalypse is nigh.

My sister drinks her chai (sweetened) across the room, on a couch, where she reads because she doesn't work on Mondays.

That man stares at me. His dark eyes aren't subtle.

One of the regulars asks me if I wouldn't rather be in a warm place to do my writing, and then he offers me his apartment in Mexico, north of Puerto Vallarta, because he likes to help artists. But I know it's also because I'm adorable, modestly speaking. 

My thoughts bounce. The chapter, the week, my sister, men, painting, Katie. And then the cycle begins over again.

Stuart walks in, bright red jacket and equally bright smile. He tells me I should be out in the middle of everything where people can enjoy me instead of hidden in a corner.

The woman waiting to order her beverage wears glasses, and she has another pair perched on her head. Does she know?

Where are you? What do you see? What do you smell, and what are you thinking?