Edgar smiled at the receptionist, following her eyes around the room until both pairs settled on a table at the back- a dimly-lit corner with an ambiance fit for two. He nodded approvingly. It was fine, for its purpose. Though hardly a private setting, there was enough space between the corner and the rest of the shop to make him confident enough that his work would remain uninterrupted for the time he would spend there. Not ideal, of course, but fine.
Now, if he had wanted to work, and nothing more, Edgar would be far better off staying at home. For all his airs and graces, it was important to remember that the man was, in fact, somewhat of an introvert, and sitting out in a public setting most assuredly would not lend itself to his finest prose (although, from reader experience, neither did sitting in at home). With a trembling hand, he drew out his notepad, and, with a steady voice, beckoned the waitress to his side.
She asked him what he was doing. She asked him if the notebook was his, as if that was a question. She asked him if he was familiar with the area, whether he was planning to visit the old church before the big rennovation, what his latest paltry novel was about. Edgar responded with practiced ease (he was writing, it was, yes, no, he didn't know, what did it matter). It was all akin to torture, this was- sitting there in a trendy cafe, staring at the gallery of little trinkets and novelties around them, listening to this stranger's incessant ramblings about his own, pointless-
He stopped abruptly, forcing himself to blink a few times to regain his bearings. He was losing focus. He was losing touch. Hopefully that wouldn't be so apparent to the waitress.
Edgar laughed, and the waiter laughed with him. 'Oh yes,' they chuckled. 'To Hell with those journalist twats who refuse to think before they speak.'. 'To Hell with them, and to the Throne with us, the worthy few, who were blessed with divine knowledge of when to keep our mouths shut.'. They continued like this for minutes.
She left to fetch his tea.
He blinked again, scanning his surroundings like a deer in the woods. The tea was on its way. There were no scones, they had run out of those thirteen minutes ago, but they were making a new batch that would be ready in ten, and this, to him, was fine. No need to hurry them. These things take time.
The teapot was set down on the table before him, perched next to a freshly-baked scone and a little jar of jam (he had decided against hassling them for clotted cream). He blinked once more, as people were want to do, and dismissed the waitress with a polite, yet unsteady wave. His smile was faltering again. How unfortunate. Edgar reached into his breast pocket for his watch, flicking it open before him to glance at the time. Half past three, exactly. Where did it go?
He snapped the watch shut with his hand, returning it to its place as quickly as it was taken out. The tea would be ready, by now. Three minutes and fifty-four seconds had passed, making a for perfect four minutes by the time he poured his first cup. It was perfect- warm and tasteless, with not a hint of bitterness to be found.
'How surreal.' He thought. 'Better write this one down.'