I was meeting with my illustrator, Frank. Oh, I didn’t tell you, I am a writer. I had gotten a call from my publisher about two months ago, informing me that this time around, we weren’t exactly the Elton John and Bernie Taupin of the literary world. Had I lost my knack or had my writing been lost in translation during Frank’s working vacation in Margaritaville?
We decided to knock heads at Megabuck Joe’s, the coffee shop closest to my apartment, and right across the street from the subway station Frank would be getting off at.
I arrived first and took a seat by the window, sliding my hand through a puddle of cold coffee on the table, yet to be cleaned off from the previous patrons. Not seeing any napkins, I wiped my hands on my jeans and pushed aside the empty coffee cup and tucked the singles that were left on the table under the edge of the saucer. As sudden slam on the window, alerted me Frank had arrived.