The icon on his computer ebbed in and out like a specter. It was waiting for the words. It had been waiting for close to an hour.

              Kelvin was in a coffee shop, and he was trying to write but the words weren’t cooperating. He had a deadline, but more importantly, he had a wife and kid who expected him to make ends meet. His money was dependent on publishing, and publishing he loathed to admit, was dependent on having words on a page to turn in. And not just any words—worthwhile words.

              And for now, he had no such words.

              He sipped his third coffee (he was trying to cut back, but not today) and sat back in the comfy leather seat. He let out an audible sigh. Nobody was around to hear it anyways, except for maybe the barista, but she seemed lost somewhere in the back organizing. And why shouldn’t she be? There were no customers here after all.

              As if on cue, the chime of the door rang.

              A young brunette woman entered Founded Coffee—a floral bag slung over her shoulder. She seemed intent on staying for a little. This was fine with Kelvin, he preferred company as he set to work each day. As much as he wished he was internally motivated, external motivation had always seemed to work best for him. He would clack away at a keyboard when people were around, as if to validate his presence. To his surprise, he’d found that if he clacked on the keyboard long enough, a piece of writing often appeared. Sometimes that piece of writing was even worthwhile.

              He was prepared to begin his ritualistic tapping when the woman settled at the table beside him. Kelvin found himself praying she wasn’t a talk-on-her-cellphone-on-speaker-as-if-nobody-is-around type. While he occasionally got ideas for stories this way, it also wasn’t the most conducive writing atmosphere.

              She gave Kelvin a polite nod before digging into her bag. She pulled out a large water jug, the same kind Kelvin’s wife had, as well as a corresponding twin bottle he’d gotten from her for Christmas two years ago. He was sure it was buried deep in the cupboards behind chipped mugs and long-since-forgotten plastic cereal bowls. Kelvin’s wife had been on a hydration kick, one which he’d hoped would last a few months. That had been three years ago. As the woman emptied more from her bag—a granola bar, a laptop, a cellphone, keys, a detached computer mouse, a stylus—Kelvin became more convinced that his wife would like this woman. Maybe she’d even been sent to watch over him, remind him to drink water on the hour.

              He must have been staring a bit too long because she looked back up, noticing him and gave another smile, this one more uncomfortable than the first.

              Not wanting to be creepy, Kelvin decided subtle conversation was the only saving move here.

              “Very prepared for the day! I appreciate that. Some people just show up with a laptop!”

              Kelvin smiled and shook his head, emphasizing how misguided these types were.

              “Rookies,” said the woman, shaking her head now too, “can’t be doing that!”

              Kelvin shook his finger at her in an amen-to-that sort of way.

              He was about to return to his writing, happy to have averted this potential awkward crisis when she spoke up again.

              “You know, it’s the teacher in me,” she said, flipping her laptop open, “I can’t help but overprepare sometimes. Even during the summer.”

              “A teacher?” said Kelvin, “makes sense. Are you guys—”

              “On summer vacation?” she said, knowing exactly where he was going, “As of Friday!”

              “Free at last,” she said in a mock whisper-yell reaching her arms towards the sky in thanks.

              “Well congratulations,” said Kelvin, “I have a boy of my own, so I know you guys deserve it. You work hard for that time off! Enjoy it!”

              “Thanks,” said the woman, now with a curt smile, “you’d be surprised at how often people don’t feel that way.”

              “Really?” said Kelvin, “those people don’t have kids obviously.”

              The woman gave him a you-would-think look. He heard the unmistakable login noise of her Dell.

              “I hope you’re taking this time off to explore your passions. Forget about the haters.”

              “You too!” she said.

              “Oh,” said Kelvin, fearing a miscommunication, “I’m not a teacher.”

              “Well,” she said, “I still think you deserve a summer.”

              Kelvin smiled. How long had it been since he’d stopped thinking of summer like that? A break from the norm. A deserved break. A deep breath after a long run.

              He mouthed a thanks to her and threw his headphones back in, beginning to clack away. He thought he might have found some worthwhile words.

Words worthy of summer.