The words escape, flitting in and out of her consciousness like butterflies, always just beyond reach. Olivia sits staring at the blank page wishing the words into her pen. Still they lurk, just out of reach. Frustrated, she sets the pen to the page. Maybe all she needs is to begin writing. She pushes the pen across the page, forming letters but not making sense of anything. She watchs the smooth black lines as they left a trail behind the tip of the pen.

Finally she gives up. The ideas are there, deep in her subconscious. She has tried everything to get them to come out in the open but something keeps them there. She knows there is something going on, especially after that encounter with the mysterious man in the bookstore. That's another thing. Why had he let her ask questions? So many times she'd run into a wall, and this time she hadn't. What happened?

She sighs and sets the pen down, looking around the cafe. It's not as full as it always is. She wonders why, but then decides there are too many mysteries in her life to worry about one so small as this. There is a glass full of cream soda by her left hand. She picks it up and takes a sip.

What will it take to figure this out? she thinks.

OOC: May I? It's a few days old and I'd just like to be sure that it is still open.

OOC: Sure. As long as it doesn't have a reply yet, I consider it still open.

The suffocation was overwhelming. She had to get out of that hotel room. The only thing that had kept her trapped in that tiny room this long had been the knowledge that tomorrow she was signing the final papers on her new lease.

Her rubber soled purple and black checkered high-tops made no sound on the tile when she entered the coffee shop. Her outfit, jeans rolled to capri length and a long tee shirt with a quarter sleeved jean jacket, made a cry out for how much she appreciated the newfound warm weather of spring breaking through winters frosty grips. Her long red curls were swept into a ponytail. It was exhilarating to be warm again.

She ordered a ice peppermint mocha, trading up from the bitter taste of coffee, and found a seat at a table for two between an old couple, him reading the newspaper and her reading a novel, and another woman who was apparently not writing. She gave her a tight, understanding smile. It said I feel your pain.

Olivia smiles back. It would be nice to have some company she thinks, even if I can't really share what I'm writing about. Maybe a break is just what I need. She waves to the young woman, inviting her to come sit with her.