"The Nameless Waltz" by Constanza Mayer

Mr. Thomas: Part 1

This is an original story I'm working on, started yesterday. Hope you like it :) Not fantasy at all, more like 'a fantasy.'

I

It was a rainy day in London. The sweet smell of pavement filled the air and the pitter patter of my boots made me think of a concert, the percussion section. I was making my way towards the usual cafe I always go to sit down and work on my book while having a cup of tea or coffee, but it seemed too far a distance to walk now and I’d forgotten my umbrella. Great idea to wear boots that can stand puddles and rain, but to completely forget your umbrella. But it didn’t really matter because I wouldn’t have found it if I’d remembered. Yes, it: the cafe that would change my life forever.

I’d seen the place before. It was clearly a bit posh and I wouldn’t have dared to go in before, mainly because of my budget, but this time it was different: it was calling out to me and it was the only cafe nearby. I looked up at the beautiful bronze letters that spelt out its name and placed my hand on the doorknob to find myself pushing unnecessarily since someone was already opening the door for me.

“Thank you,” I said feeling rather stupid. Of course, they would have a doorman.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” said the hostess. “Any particular place you’d like to sit?”

I looked around and saw a few empty spaces, mainly small tables with a few chairs here and there, but right across from me, in an almost hidden corner, I saw a large warm-looking armchair, its color almost like rust, and I knew I had to sit there.

“Yeah,” I found myself saying without looking at her, not meaning to be rude. “I’m just gonna sit over there.”

The hostess nodded and I am certain that she would have led the way, hadn’t I done so first. I must have looked like a madwoman now that I remember it, but I truly felt that the armchair was somehow calling me. As I reached it, I placed my hand on its velvety skin, sat my bag down on the armchair next to it, and sat slowly down. It was magic. Right across the armchair was a beautiful garden. It was vast and elegant, not too large, but it was the most inspiring sight I had seen in a long time. The colors of the flowers were soothing, some blue and purple with the bright pollen shining inside them. I was reminded of Van Gogh’s paintings of lilies and so many a flower, and I felt that it was a magical hour, so I decided to stay no matter the cost.

“Would you like to order anything or do you prefer a few moments to have a look at the menu?” I suddenly heard the waitress speaking.

“Oh,” I said a bit startled from my daydreaming. “Tea would be fine. Earl grey, please.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” she replied and left.

As I made my way down the street with my bag over my right shoulder, I breathed in the damp night air. It wasn’t cold at all, after all, it was Spring and I loved it. I would come again, I decided. I would come again and write my heart out as long as it was me, the chair and the garden. Perhaps not every day, but at least once a week would help me to get things really started and, hopefully, finished.

I was completely lost by the view of the garden as if it were speaking to me. ‘Write’ it told me, ‘write me into this world.’ And I did. I grabbed my notebook, flipped it open, didn’t even bother to ask about WiFi since I didn’t need to be online to write and I just poured my soul out. I barely noticed when the tea arrived, forgot to the thank the girl and hoped it wouldn’t all be too costly at the end to give her a decent tip, at least. I wasn’t really writing about the garden, but instead about a magical land that in my mind had existed or could exist elsewhere in another universe. But the armchair and the garden, I felt, were my home and the perfect spot from me to write, no matter the cost.

After a few hours of ordering tea, a bit of lemon pie, an avocado sandwich and going to the bathroom every now and then, I found myself noticing that it was late and that it was already dark. I put my things away, asked for the check, felt slightly mortified by the figure, but I felt it had been worth it. I gave the girl a good tip in exchange for my poor standoffish attitude and left.

by Constanza Mayer

This picture reminds me of the coffee shop I imagined, mainly the colors, but I haven't quite found anything that looks just like what I see in my mind. This is The Ivy Chelsea Garden Cafe in London.