It’s going to rain again. I duck into the small café on my right just as the downpour assaults the pavement, drenching those unfortunate enough to be caught outside. Flicking my hood off, I shake the droplets of precipitation from my hair and face, letting the warm air of the shop greet me like an old friend. I’ve only been in Seattle for three months, but this is certainly my favorite hideaway already. Weaving my way through the tables and chairs, I make my way to the back toward the couches. I settle into the cozy chair by the fire and slide out of my jacket.

Luckily, the shop isn’t busy today. I adore reading here. The walls surrounding me are concealed by rows upon rows of books, new and old. I breathe in the scent of paper and coffee. The combination is easily the greatest smell to ever grace humankind. Drawing my newest second-hand find from my bag, I prepare to get lost in the ink. The book in question happens to be an original copy of Jane Eyre. The pages are thin from years of love and the binding is rough, worn down by the tender hands of prior bibliophiles. I grin and open the story, greeting my favorite characters for the twelfth time. As I peruse the text, my mind begins to wander.

A piano piece begins playing itself in my mind. The notes are soft and low, being presented one at a time. Soon, a viola joins the piano. The arrangement is haunting. The music gradually builds to generate a dark tone. A cello, my instrument, works its way in and the song crescendos. Then, all at once, an entire orchestra is playing, each instrument perfectly weaving a beautiful pattern of notes. As suddenly as it began, the song halts, then takes on the form of a ballad. The woodwinds are now the center of attention. They command a hushed reverence from their invisible audience. The melody is graceful and alluring, much like Jane’s Mr. Rochester.

I am aware that by now, my eyes are closed, the book in my lap only a part of the symphony in my mind. The woodwinds fall away, all but the flute. It is joined once more by the cello. They work to create a seemingly disorganized, yet paradoxically structured beauty. Again, the entire orchestra strikes up, the music swelling into a passionate sonata, and—

“Excuse me miss, can I get you anything?” My eyes fly open. I’m awakened from my reverie by one of the cafes’ employees.

“No, thank you,” I murmur, sighing. I smile a bit and he walks away, searching for another customer to assist.
I glance at the novel lying before me. The clock above the mantle reads five thirty. I have been in the shop for almost an hour. Returning Jane Eyre to my bag, I gather my belongings and stand. Grabbing a simple cup of black coffee on my way out, I begin the short journey home to my modest apartment.

The music still clings to the inside of my eyelids, pressing invisible notes to my eardrums and begs me to return to it. I will write down what I created at home, but I know all the same that it will never be played for an audience like the one in my imagination. I shake my head, struggling to chase away the little particles of hope trying to direct my thoughts. I hurry home, praying that I get to the front door before the rain starts up again.