I sit at my computer busily tapping away at the keys.
I blur out my surroundings in exchange for focus on the space directly in front of me. My home.
In reverent tunnel vision, I work unhindered. The words flow from my fingers like honey into a perfectly poured cup of lemon tea.
“Hey, man.” My eyes shoot up. Everything rushes back into view. Someone pulls a chair up to my table and takes a seat. “What’s up?” he asks.
And just like that, my peaceful, wonderful home is blown – in super slow motion – into a million tiny bits. An atomic bomb just took a seat with me. And it detonated.
Shit. I should’ve gone somewhere else.
The person, a vague acquaintance, stares dumbly at me awaiting a response.
“Hi,” I say.
“Watcha working on?” he asks.
It’s actually none of your God damned business.
I look back down at my keyboard and try to reclaim what serenity remains. The keys click as I start again.
“What for?” he asks.
It’s none of your business you fucking dunce.
He looks at me like a dense 5-year-old. I look back at him, but this time, my glare makes him hear the words in my head.
He blinks twice, then gets up. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it.”
I don’t say goodbye. I quickly bring myself back to the place where I began.
Gradually, my focus returns. I zero out the background, and I give my attention to the only place that matters.
Slowly, my fingers start to walk again up and down avenues and alleyways that hold happy memories. It becomes easier and easier, inching up to the border of effortlessness. I smile as the little letters dance before me. They move and sway in beautiful patterns, grouping themselves into intricate arrangements like fancy doilies or colorful paisley. They remind me that, though atomic bombs float more freely through the air than I might expect, this space is mine. And no one can take it from me.
Once again, I arrive at that peaceful, wonderful home.
I only pause to take a drink of tea.
It’s lemon with honey.