Creative Writing (as part of final exam)

*My creative piece is about an experience I had a few years ago that is very personal and private; whatever anyone infers from the piece, I’d really appreciate if it remained private. Thank you! :)

Starbucks

Heart racing, fingers shaking, toes tapping.
11 am: tall coffee please.
11:37 am: grande coffee please.
12:40 pm: excuse me, you’ve run out of Splenda over at the counter.
2:16 pm: iced coffee please.

Could you do a splash of milk? Maybe? Yes?
No, of course not. Absolutely not. Would ruin the whole day. You’d be thinking about this for the next seven hours, wishing you could erase it, undo it. Is that what you want? No.
Tea. That’s what I need. Hot tea.
Dizzy, light-headed, walking over to the counter.
Judging the larger blonde woman who orders the blueberry coffecake, experiencing that mysterious wave of evil and mistaken self-confidence, narrowing my eyes, shifting my weight, placing my hand on my hip, my haughtiness at being able to resist. I can’t help it. I feel terrible. I shouldn’t think these things. But I do.

She does look happy.

Is all this worth it? Am I happy?

Last night I dreamed of the pastries inside the glass. Lemon bars, blueberry oat bars, cranberry orange muffins, apple fritters, cinnamon danish, coffeecake, maple nut scones, lemon scones, pumpkin scones, vanilla scones. Bagels. Cheesecake.
They tell me this is not uncommon.

You could have a muffin. Yes you could. Just a muffin. How many times have they told you that it goes to your insides first? To your heart (slow heart rate). To your joints (running, falling, bloody and bruised knees).
You could do it.
Yes, I could.
The cost: complete, total, absolute mental and emotional torture. A regret so intense I’d die to escape the voices just for a minute. Maybe a run. Maybe a decision—unchangeable—nothing in my body until 6 pm tomorrow. Maybe something I haven’t even come up with yet. A punishment.

So this time, I can’t. Pass on the muffin.
2:54 pm: black tea, please.
I wish I could, but I can’t.

Back at my table near the entrance, fingers poised over the keyboard.

Who could you talk to when you’re really have a tough day? Maybe your mom? Olivia? Doug?
No. No one. I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I don’t do that. I couldn’t. Realistically… just…no.
Do you keep a journal?
No.
Well, maybe you’d consider trying to write down some of your thoughts when you’re having an especially difficult day. How would you feel about doing that?
Maybe. I guess. I could try it.

So I’ve been here for four and a half hours. Writing. Apparently I do have a lot to get out.
Get it out.
Out. On paper, documented, not lost, but not part of me.
I won’t have to carry it around. I can relax. Get it out.
And breath deeply.