Literary Devices Ch. 01

"I'll have a salted caramel latte, please," I said to the barista.

"Salted caramel latte," she echoed while typing it in. "What size?"

"Grande."

She pressed a few more buttons. "Perfect. Anything else?"

"No, that's all," I said. "Thanks."

"Great. Whenever you're ready."

She spun the terminal and looked at me expectantly as I stared down at the tip options. The lowest was 18%, going all the way up to 25%, and the No Tip option was hidden in the bottom corner in a 1pt font.

I cringed internally. That had to be illegal.

I looked back up at her and gave her a fake, tight-lipped smile.

Be kind to service employees, I reminded myself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

I closed my eyes and quickly pressed on 18%, then tapped my card before I could change my mind.

"Thank you," cooed the barista, almost too polite. "You can wait over there."

As I waited for my drink, I reflected upon my life choices and started wondering why I paid nearly $10.00 for a bloody coffee every morning. I did some quick mental maths and estimated that if I had just bought a coffee machine years ago, I probably could have afforded a car by now.

But surely it wouldn't taste that good, right? Anyways, it was too late now. Sunk-cost fallacy and all that. So I was doomed to ride the bus for the rest of my life.

I had somehow convinced myself that I enjoyed it--taking public transit--, that it was 'better for the environment'.

Something only someone without a car would say.

Jokes aside, I genuinely liked coming here every morning. It had become something of a ritual for me. It forced me to put on something other than a pair of baggy sweatpants and a hoodie with nothing underneath, though I still rarely bothered putting on a bra.

Most importantly, it made me get out of my tiny, cramped, suffocating apartment. For some reason, I just couldn't focus when I was at home. As much as I tried putting my mind to it, my thoughts always eventually drifted elsewhere. I'd start thinking about all the dishes I had to clean, about which colour I should paint my walls, about my landlord who still hadn't sent someone to fix my stupid AC...

Everything except my book.

But here, whenever I'd sit at the booth near the floor-to-ceiling window, listening to the low voices of other early risers and the muted buzz of vehicles driving by, everything just fell into place. I'd open my laptop and just start typing, as if my story was writing itself. I could just sit here and write for hours on end.

"Salted caramel latte for... Laura?"

"Yup," I said, my inner monologue suddenly interrupted. I picked up my order, adjusted my messenger bag on my shoulder, and promptly headed for my usual spot--

The seat was already taken.

Oh.

I pretended it didn't bother me and sat at another table.

I hung my long pea coat on the backrest of my chair, loosened the woolly scarf around my neck, and tossed my hair back. I took a long sip of my drink and exhaled satisfyingly, letting the hot plastic cup warm my hands.

I took the laptop out of my bag, placed it before me, opened up the Word document, placed my fingers on the keyboard, closed my eyes, and--

Nothing. Nothing at all.

What the hell?

For the first time in a long time, I didn't know what to write, the blinking cursor staring right back at me.

I leaned in, like you do when you have to get serious during the final lap in Mario Kart, pushed my glasses higher on my nose, and started typing.

I read it.

I deleted it.

I tried again, and deleted that one, too. It just didn't feel right.

"Come on", I mumbled to myself.

I was at a pivotal point in the story: the MMC finally admitted his feelings to the FMC, after years of rivalry, teasing, and pent-up sexual tension--classic enemies-to-lovers. I was building them up to finally give in to their unbearable lust and throw themselves at each other in wild abandon.

This should have been easy.

I'd read plenty of smutty stories before. I'd seen plenty of rom-coms. And admittedly, I'd written more than one horny Star Wars fan-fic in my teenage years.

And yet, somehow, I was drawing blanks.

Maybe the problem was that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Which was a bit embarrassing for someone whose entire job was making things up.

I mean, what was I supposed to write?

He kissed her.

Too boring.

Their lips met in a passionate embrace.

Awful.

I highlighted both sentences and deleted them.

Maybe I was overthinking it.

Or maybe I was just inexperienced. Like, really inexperienced.

Aside from that one time I kissed a guy while playing spin the bottle at a high school party--which had only been a quick peck on the lips, so that didn't really count--I'd never been intimate with anyone before.

I'd always been a little more comfortable with fictional people than real ones. Which was probably why I'd become a writer in the first place.

The funny thing was, I hadn't exactly planned on becoming one.

My first book was a YA sci-fi mystery about a delivery crew who got caught up in an intergalactic coup. Pretty nerdy, I know, but it did well enough that my publisher signed me for a second book.

For that one, I went in a completely different direction: high fantasy, complicated magic system, and deep political intrigue, drawing inspiration from some of my favourites, like Tolkien and Martin. I was pretty proud of it.

Then, completely out of nowhere, a few BookTok creators picked it up and started obsessing over who the FMC would end up with.

And, well... apparently that was all it took.

The book blew up, my publisher begged me for a sequel, and suddenly I was sitting in a coffee shop at eight in the morning trying to figure out how two fictional characters were supposed to have sex.

Despite having built up quite a bit of tension between them, the main complaint I'd received was that it hadn't led to anything yet.

There was no avoiding it this time. And I certainly didn't want to disappoint my fanbase.

I rolled up the sleeves of my turtleneck, took another sip of coffee, and tried again.

Before I knew it, I'd spent a whole hour writing a few words, then deleting them, and doing it all over again.

I put my hands over my face and sighed. "Urgh..."

Why am I having such a hard time with this? It's just a sex scene. Nothing crazy. Get over it, girl.

I looked over my shoulder and shot a not-so-discreet glance at the man who'd stolen my booth.

Maybe if I'd gotten my usual spot by the window, I wouldn't have hit this block.

Yeah, right. As if.

But after a few more minutes of alternating between staring at a blank page on my computer screen and staring at this absolute rando--this seat stealer--, I had somehow convinced myself that maybe it was because of him.

Who did he think he was anyways, coming in here and taking my booth? I'd been a regular here for several months, and I'd never seen him before.

The audacity!

I squinted my eyes to get a better look at him. His back was facing me, so I couldn't see much, but I could make out that he was wearing one of those sleeveless puffer jackets with a flannel underneath.

Was he a trucker or something? No offense, but sir, go and get your coffee at Tim Horton's down the street.

I leaned to the side and noticed that he had a book open in front of him.

Pff. How performative!

I didn't even know this guy and I already had his entire backstory written in my head: fifty-something, divorced, one daughter he's lost contact with, desperate for human connection, so he comes to my café and takes my seat, hoping to meet someone.

Heh.

As I kept antagonising this stranger in my mind, I somehow found myself standing up and walking towards him, rehearsing what I'd say to reclaim what was rightfully mine.

And it all fell right out of the window.

"Erm, hi?"

The moment I laid eyes on him, I froze. I was just standing there, stupidly gawking at him.

"Hi," I managed, laughing nervously.

"Can I help you?" he said with a polite but confused smile.

I opened my mouth to say something but nothing came out.

He dog-eared his page and closed his book, patiently waiting for me to say something.

My mind was racing.

Say something. Anything!

"You're... not what I thought you'd be."

"And what would that be?" he chuckled, as if that was a perfectly normal thing for me to say to a stranger.

"I'm sorry," I began. "It's just that I--I usually sit at this booth. By the window. And erm..."

"Ah, I beg your pardon. Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "I'm almost done anyway."

"Oh, thank you. I mean--You don't need to. That felt weird and rude. I'm sorry..."

"Not at all," he insisted, flashing his perfect smile at me. I felt my throat drying up and heat rising to my cheeks.

"Okay," I just said, forcing a smile on my face as I retrieved my things from the other table.

What is even happening right now? I screamed internally. Stay cool. Act like a normal human being.

I cringed when the leather creaked under me as I scooted onto the booth, but I thought it best not to make an awkward comment about it.

Thankfully, his attention had already returned to his book.

Good. No need for small talk.

I tossed my coat next to me and opened up my computer again, ready to finally get back to the task at hand, and--

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving the book.

Was he really going to just sit there and read? How am I supposed to focus with him...

With him looking like that?

First of all, he was far from the middle-aged trucker I had imagined. He was in his early-thirties at most. He had longish, wavy dark hair, thick eyebrows, a bit of stubble, and a strong jawline.

The corner of his mouth twitched from time to time, as if he were mouthing the words he'd just read.

Stop being such a creep, Laura, and get to work already!

I shook the thoughts away and dove back into my story.

It took about a minute of me typing absolute nonsense before I couldn't resist peeking over my computer screen once again.

Is he almost done? Why hasn't he said anything? Has he even looked at me once?

As if he'd heard my thoughts, his gaze drifted toward me, his piercing blue eyes peering into mine. Either through hypnosis or some sort of wizardry, I found myself unable to look away. He just smiled at me again, and I felt compelled to return it.

Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?

He tilted his head and squinted, as if examining my pores. "Do I know you?"

I blinked. "Erm, I don't think so."

He closed his book and turned it to the back. He raised his eyebrows. "Holy shit," is all he said as he turned it around and showed me what he was reading.

My eyes widened in pure astonishment.

THE KEY OF GARRAKUS.

By Laura Summers.

That's me. That's my book. He was reading my fucking book.