It’s always Tuesday at 9:30 AM somewhere

The thing about writers is that we’re good listeners on the surface. But dive beneath the papery, opaqueness of our skin (aged from all those late nights reading and story plotting, of course), and you’ll find, nestled in the center of our brains, a dingy, old coffee shop, with stacks of books that pile to the ceiling, blocking the sunlight that peeps through the dust-coated windows.

An old, bearded man stands impatiently at the counter, his long whiskers drape so low they tuck themselves neatly into the front pocket of his apron. He stares coldly at you through round, metal glasses and that’s when you see it — he’s not human at all, he’s a goblin. You feel a coldness in his eyes but then the crisp, auburn smell of roasted coffee tingles your nose, showcasing his impeccable craftsmanship and beckoning you forward. You watch as he tilts a carafe of warm, chestnut liquid into a copper mug and hands it to you. This goblin is a coffee wizard. You take a sip and your tastebuds dance in delight. A warmth fills your chest. You whisper to yourself, this Americano is an American-yes.

“…any questions about that landing page you need to write?” A familiar voice interrupts my coffee fantasy. I snap back to reality and my computer screen comes into view. Images of my seven coworkers stare back at me, confused expressions on their faces. I must have zoned out during our team meeting.

I check my brain for any memories of our call but my inner coffee goblin is nowhere to be found. Probably in the back room watching Seinfeld, sneaking a joint.

“Uh, no, I think I’m good.” I lie.

This is the part where I cross my fingers and hope a thoroughly detailed project brief comes through because I’m a writer, not a conversationalist. And my inner demon is horrible at organization.