Submitted to WOW! Women On Writing Spring '24 Flash Fiction Contest

june 24

All we want to do is drink a cup of coffee, in public, but alone. We pick the bar, facing the staff, so nobody pulls up a chair. Headphones without sound, because they send a message. Eyes down, laptops open.

It doesn't make a difference. The men still interrupt. They think it's flattering, when it’s insulting. You only interrupt a life when you think it needs interruption. They won't leave us alone. They think we’re better off in their presence.

On a Friday in June, I replace the cup of coffee with a warm Chai, for comfort. I heard the news that day. The interrupters had really done it this time. We couldn't have a cup of coffee, a cocktail, a baby, or an abortion, without interruption. We created their lives, and now they interrupt ours. That’s how it goes.

A man who is likely named Bob or Bill tries to make eye contact. He is looking at me looking at my laptop. I do have peripheral vision, though I pretend I don’t. He is smiling like an idiot, ready to make a comment, if only I would look up. 

I will not look up. It feels like some form of rebellion, but really, it’s just living. 

“You look like you’re working hard,” he says. 

I don’t look up. 

“Any big plans for the weekend?” he says.

I don’t look up.

A white dress appears near the man.

“You’re blocking the bar.”

I hear a snicker, and then a shuffle. The white takes over, and the gray falls away.

Finally, I look up. Our eyes meet. 

“Awful news,” she says.

“The worst,” I reply.

Her eyes look wet, so mine start to water. 

We laugh. The interrupters can hear us, but they can’t talk to us. They can’t talk to us ever again.