Prototype

I'm sitting on a tall stool in a cafe' wearing a flowing, umpire-waisted strapless dress in coral that sweeps the floor. Two messy french braids meet at the nape of my neck and my nose is so far in a book that I'm completely oblivious to the world around me.

This is my Saturday morning in the city.

There are lots of things to do and even more being done. But none of this matters to me. I'm at the best part of my newest obsession, I mean, book. I love books and reading them even more. You can find me resting here, reading here, and writing here--religiously. This window seat allows for just enough light to illuminate the pages perfectly and just enough cover from prying eyes. It's almost romantic.

Diggin’ this energy and well aware that this will never stay between just you and me because I can barely contain myself. Here I am, head over heels, heels over head, and nose wide open. Mine prefers your scent over any other. But you’re unavailable right now so I’ll leave this message after the tone-- yours deep, rich, and resonating through the drums in my ear. The cadence heavy on the 808 and careful not to bust the tweeter--yet.
**Beep** I know you hear me calling, the inflection in my voice rising and falling. Intonation. Articulation. Modulation.
You study my instrumental melody. There are no words even close to my lips. But the sudden dip in my hips sends you to the next bar. This sixteen just as euphonious as the first. Almost reaching the pinnacle but not yet. Pause. Run the tape back, flip it, and turn up the treble.
This message is getting long. Let the machine stop. There’s no need for its technology. My voice coming through crystal clear and almost loud enough for the neighbors to hear--you playing my song. Tune’s stuck in my head--over and over again. No words. Just sound. Pounding the speakers and I’m riding the beat.
Far from ignorant of bliss like this and hooked on your refrain….

Nikki Wright (also known as "Ms Write"). Oh, how I absolutely adore her candor and lyricism! As a matter of fact, I was so in love, I hadn't noticed the waiter waiting on me.

"Looks like someone loves poetry." he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you. 'Voicemail' is my favorite." I uttered while holding open my captivator for him to see. I hated being interrupted but he was only doing his job so, I decided to keep my, 'Go away! Can't you see I'm reading?' expression to myself.

"Would you mind if I take a seat?" (Insert raised eyebrow here.) "I mean, unless you're waiting for someone. Are you? I can leave. I should just leave, shouldn't I?" He stumbled all over himself.

"Someone sure asks a lot of questions. Don't you work here?" I managed to get in between his questioning and second guessing.

"No. I just..." I missed a little because I was too busy feeling a bit like a dunce for assuming that because of his disheveled hair and all black attire, he was a waiter. "...You come here a lot?"

"Maybe." I didn't want to divulge too much. I don't know this guy. He could be, well, let's just say this IS the city.

"You must think I'm some kind of..." Almost an hour later, I managed to break away from his blue-green eyed stare and smooth but sort of raspy tone to realize. I think I'm in love...AGAIN!