It’s cold. It’s colder than what I’m use to feeling. It’s so cold, I can’t even feel my hands, my fingers, my toes. They’ll all numb. It’s cold.

I cup my hands around my mouth and breathe. I breathe to bring life and heat to my poor little fingers. It’s cold.

Quickly I get into the truck, hoping that it is warmer in there. It’s not. It’s cold. Start the engine, turn on the heat. Hopefully it’ll warm up by the time I get there. Hopefully.

Ahhh, the heat is working, a tad. Only a little, as there is a hint of warm air mixing in with the extreme cold air that is blowing from the vents. Fuck it, I’ll have to deal with it for now. I’ll be warm in a bit. Only in a bit. It’s not a long drive.

I’m ready to go. I look up and out the windshield; it’s caked with ice. Shit. It’s cold. I spray the window with the cleaner fluid hoping to melt the ice. It works a little bit. How about defrost? No. Not good. Fuck it, it’s too late to go back now. I’m going.

I start the car. Slowly I make my way to the only Starbuck in a 3-mile radius. With each second in the truck, it gets warmer and the window gets clearer. Soon, everything is fine and when everything is fine, I’m there already. Hopefully, it’ll be a better drive home. Hopefully.

I pull into the lot. It’s full. I guess it being the only Starbucks in a 3-mile radius, it is a hip hangout spot for the cool crowd. I usually don’t like to hang out in the “cool” spot, but dammit, I’m cold, and I need to do my work. I need to write.

I parked at the upper parking lot in front of a teriyaki fastfood restaurant. It means I have to walk a little further in the fucking cold. Shit, I have no choice. I can’t possibly stay in the truck.

The Starbucks up there, up at home, in good ol’ Tacoma, is not like the Starbucks down here in the City of Angels. Since there is literally a coffee shop at every corner, there isn’t a particular hip coffee shop that people hang out at. That’s why it is nice to write down in Los Angeles, not too many people to deal with. The only downside, they close early down here, unlike up there where they close at near one o’clock.

I bundle up in my thin jacket and my thin five layers that I’m wearing and hop out of the truck with my computer. I force my frigid legs to move, so I can get my frozen ass inside.

I reach the drive thru. Here’s another funny thing about this Starbucks. It has a drive thru. I have to say, I’d never seen one like that. I’ve seen those little coffee shacks in large parking lots, but a corporate coffee shop drive thru, it’s a first for me.

Back to the story, the drive thru. I reach the drive thru. A large SUV just pulled in and stopped in front of me. It’s driven by a blonde, late teens to early 20’s, her passenger, a brunette, around the same age. I noticed the brunette first as I quickly acknowledge to the driver that I’m going to walk in front of the car. The brunette is out of her seat. Doing what? I don’t know, but I’m guessing to get a better look. At what, I don’t know. Me? The frozen guy who has lost his thick skin because he’s been down in Los Angeles for so long.

As I began to cross, I notice the blonde looking at me too. I think they are just making sure I get across okay; which I did. Here I am, finally, Starbucks. Judging by the parking lot, I know what to expect. It is crowded. It is much too crowded for my taste, but fuck it, I’m here and I need to do some writing. I brave the crowds and got my ass out of the cold.

While opening the door, I glance back to the SUV. They are still looking. I wonder what they are looking at? What is so interesting? It can’t possibly be me can it? Maybe they are looking at me and thinking how crazy I am to go out there in such poor clothing. It’s cold.

I step in and forget about he blonde and the brunette. My main concern, warmth, heat, feelings in my limbs. The heat hits me, then the aromatic atmosphere of the coffee shop. I look around as I wait in line. There’s a large line. Waiting in line, I scan the shop. It’s crowded, but there are tables, albeit only a few.

There are two blondes sitting at a table in the cozy comfy sofa chair drinking their coffee, chatting about whatever. They are about late teens early 20’s, maybe younger. With kids now a days, it’s hard to tell.

The line is taking too long, so I drop in the bathroom. I need a clear bladder to write. If not, then I’ll have to go to the bathroom mid writing session. Bad move, can’t focus.

Finished and the line barely moves. I scan the room again. Good, there are still one or two tables left. I notice one of the blondes looking at me. Why are all the girls giving me this sort of attention? Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the attention, but it never happens to me. It’s good to be checked out. It’s really good.

I stand there warming up with each second that I’m in the coffee shop, waiting for people to get their orders; espresso, cappuccinos, frappucinos (it’s cold; what are they thinking???), cafe mochas….I got a caramel macchiato. I need the sugar.

Now, it is time to find a table. The only table that was relatively free and clear of surrounding people is a single table next to the blondes. I went and grabbed my caramel macchiato, unloaded my computer, and started my boring routine of work and writing. I plugged in my headphones, opened up my journal client and began to test the dexterity of my fingers with my stream of conscious writing.

I wrote and wrote while listening to the oh so eclectic music that streams through my phones. I wrote and wrote. I wrote about clouds, moving on, flowing through the motions, going through life. I wrote and wrote. I wrote about the wild night I had before and the indiscretions and the trouble I caused for my friends. I just wrote and wrote, clearing my mind as I often do.

As people leave, more people come. A group of girls sit in front of me. I pay them no mind as one of them asked me with a warm smile if she could steal a chair. I put on my hat to block them from my view. I’m focusing on my writing and only my writing. I can’t focus on anything else.

Through the blaring of melodies in my head, I make out the laughs and giggles and the distractions that go on around me. I come to a stop in my entry; thinking about what else to add or what to tweak. I take off my hat, rub my hair and do as I often do, glance around the room. I slowly look around at my surroundings. The workers, the empty tables, the displays, the girls in front of me, the man beside me, my cup, my computer screen, the people waiting in line, the door opening and closing. I look around and around.

I come to the blondes. As I turn my head to their direction, I see the one looking at me early almost breaking her neck, turning away from my line of sight. Why turn away so fast? Did you get caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing? Did you get caught checking me out? Did you get caught looking at me? With the turn, there was no more. No tell tale signs of what she’s thinking. She continues on the conversation with her friend. She acts like nothing happened. Nothing happened.

I couldn’t help but smile a little to myself. A blonde, who’s a very attractive young lady, was caught looking at me. She turned around so quickly with that guilty quickness of being caught in the act. I couldn’t help by smile.

I turned to my computer with my newfound knowledge, smiling to myself, feeling good about myself, and continued to write. I paid her no mind. I didn’t care. I wrote and wrote. About the clouds, crying skies, collection of secrets, my indiscretions, my flaws, my life. I continue writing.

If all those girls checked me out because I was a sight to see, then that night was one of the happiest nights of my life. I’ve never attracted that much attention without trying to before, especially from attractive women. It was a night like any other night, me going out just to write and clear my head, with no other motives besides that. I just want to go and do my thing, but it turns out that without any forethought or any planning on my part, girls checked me out. It never happens. It never does.

It feels good to be checked out my attractive women, or most women in general. It shows that some girls are interested in me. It goes to show that I’m attractive. I know I felt attractive that night. All right, that was cheesy. Very cheesy.

* * *

Lately, there’s been a cold spell down here in the routinely sunny and warm Los Angeles. It is not as cold as it was back at home, but there’s still a bite to the air. Sitting out here tonight, transcribing my thoughts, I can’t help but notice how cold my feet are getting, I can’t help but notice the slight cool breeze that is blowing on me as I write in this lonely, dark, and cold skybridge.

I don’t think I can continue with this if it gets any colder. I might have to find another place to do my doodling. Maybe the internet cafe down the street from this place, or maybe a Starbucks that is not so far away from my home. All I know, I can’t do this anymore until it warms up.

I need to write, whether it is journal writing, or on my new script. I need to write. Writing has become a part of my life now. Without writing, a part of me will be missing. I need to write, to leave the house and to put my thoughts into words, creating lives and characters and putting them on the page. I need to do this.

It’s fucking cold. I’m getting out of here.