Cafe Corner

Mondays used to be a hateful day. Until someone came up with Cafe Corner.

After that, my mornings were always filled with excitement, because Monday meant gossip hour. I rarely went out on my own — I never really felt like it. But this was different. An event I actually wanted to go to. A place where I finally got to meet people. Interesting people, over a good cup of tea.

That Monday I was even more excited than usual, because I’d received the first copies of my novel. The others didn’t even know I wrote — I wanted to show it to them. I was scared they wouldn’t care. But they were always so kind. Maybe they’d say something nice about this, too.

I took four copies with me.

On the way, I stopped by the local bookshop and left three there. No promotion. No announcement. Nothing. Just slipped them onto the shelves, among the famous names — and waited to see if anyone would ever find them.

I kept one copy and brought it with me to gossip hour.

We always met at the Old Bikers. As I stepped inside, the noise of the street faded, replaced by the soft murmur of conversation. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, and the hiss of the coffee machine. Old bicycles stood near the entrance as decorations, guiding you deeper into the place — colourful crocheted doilies draped over the saddles and tucked between the spokes. I always smiled at the locals’ creativity. They could lift your spirits with the smallest details.

The smell of coffee, cake and gravy didn’t just swirl in the air — it seeped from the worn floorboards and the upholstery of the old furniture, as if the building itself had soaked it in over the years. And there was the scent of ash, too, from the fireplace in the middle of the room.

By the time I arrived, there were already about a dozen of us at Cafe Corner — tables pushed together for those who’d come later. Smiles and waves greeted me. I ordered a tea and sat down among them, placing the book beside me as casually as I could.

By the time my tea arrived, I already knew I wasn’t going to show it to them.

How would I even begin?

Hey, I wrote a book. What do you think?

What would they say? They’d smile and nod and tell me it was amazing — and all the while they’d probably think I was just showing off, when we were meant to be discussing something much more important, like the fact that the pub in the neighbouring village had a live guitar night every Wednesday.

So I let myself fall into the conversation instead. Only deep down, at the very bottom of my mind, the sentence kept throbbing like a heartbeat:

I wrote a book.

It always went like this. I would plan things perfectly, wait for the moment with excitement — and when the moment finally came, I let it float past me. I let it slip away. Like I always did.

At some point we were talking about dog shelters, and I hadn’t even noticed when the topic shifted. But this, again, was not the moment where I could bring up a fantasy novel.

My thoughts drifted. I wondered how my characters would handle this.

I sipped my tea slowly and smiled to myself. The sounds of gossip hour blurred, fading into the background, as Koragh spoke up inside my head.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They probably can’t even read. Nothing wrong with that — I can’t read either. But if I hit someone over the head with a book, they’ll definitely feel it.”

“Don’t be so rude,” Elizabeth scolded him. “These are kind people. Supportive people. Don’t advertise yourself — ask questions. Do they read? What do they like? And once they’re already talking about books, it’s much easier to bring your novel up naturally.”

A chair shifted beside me. I looked up and smiled at Carol as she sat down, pulling myself back to the surface — back into the conversation.

“Hi, Carol.”

“Hi. How are you?” she said, exasperated. “Parking is awful. And there’s roadwork by the Townhouse as well.”

So that was how you changed the subject — with a strong entrance. My characters knew how to do that. I didn’t.

And then Carol picked up my copy from the table.

For a moment my heart stopped. Then it thudded painfully against my ribs.

She was still talking about the unbearable state of local traffic, not even looking at the book — she was just holding it in her hands. And I barely dared to breathe.

Then, finally, she glanced at the cover… and looked at me.

“Are you reading this?”

“I’m not reading it…” I said. “…I wrote it.”

I’d said it. I’d actually said it. Thank you, Carol.

I smiled so widely my face almost hurt.

“No way. Seriously?” And she flipped it over to read the blurb. “What’s it about?”

“It’s fantasy…” I paused, because I realised the others had started paying attention. “…a relic that ends up in the wrong hands.”

“Is it romantic?” July asked, and Carol passed it to her.

“There’s romance in it,” I said, “but that’s not the main focus.”

My eyes darted from face to face. I couldn’t believe it. They passed it around — one after another.

Meanwhile July was rummaging through her bag. Then she looked up at me.

“I’ve only got change. Is that alright?”

“What?” I blinked.

“I’d like to buy it. Or is it not for sale yet?”

I blinked again. My heart was racing. Really? Had I heard that right?

“Yes — yes, of course.”

And with a bright, happy smile, she counted out ten pounds and placed it in front of me. Then she reached for the book, taking it back from the others.

“Do you have more?” Carol asked beside me.

“I only brought this one,” I said, regretful. I truly could have brought more — but who would have thought?

Then I remembered, and added, “The others are in the bookshop.”

“The one on the High Street?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be right back.”

I watched her go, stunned. My gaze followed her out onto the street and I watched her for a moment as she headed towards the bookshop.

Meanwhile July finished reading the blurb.

“This sounds really exciting,” she said. “And it’s nice and thick. I love long stories.”

Carol returned holding a copy — one she’d bought.

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood up and hugged her.

I had officially become a writer.

“Oh, you should sign it,” Carol said with a smile, already searching for a pen. Of course I hadn’t brought one. I hadn’t thought there would be signing, too.

With love to Carol, the owner of the first bookshop copy.

Then July held out her own copy as well — she wanted it signed too. She got one, as my very first customer.

I didn’t look up. I could barely see. I was fighting tears.

Since then, I’ve been looking forward to Mondays.

And every Monday, they ask me when the sequel will be ready.