I’m there often before the cafe opens. Not so much to grab the prized table near the fireplace, but to grab “my spot” to sit and write for two hours or more. My Muse has trained me to be punctual so she (he? still not certain) will tell me the story she wants to tell today.

The table has an energy for me.

Apparently it does for many others as well because patrons will round the corner in the cafe holding coffee and their breakfast place only to be disappointed when “the spot” is occupied.

Most will say something like, “You’ve got the best spot,” as if I am supposed to move. Often I’ve only been there fifteen minutes or so and my plate of partially eaten food is still visible.

So now I put buds in my ears, playing music or not, to tune out all the distractions. I move “my table” as close to the wall as possible, pulling the nearby table over to the fire so someone else can enjoy the warmth.

It’s never enough for others though.

The side eye from, sorry to say, usually women over fifty, burns my forehead. Some just stand, look and talk, loudly, with their group about how “that’s where I thought we would sit, but it’s taken.”

Mr. Coronado who cleans the tables has become my buddy. He has worked restaurants where he has seen customers shout and shove over similar situations. Gee. He’s told me to just say, “No entiendo.” That wouldn’t be true for me so I just smile, bury my head down and write. (today about them)