Act the first

A woman sits in a café sribbling furiously and muttering somewhat to herself. Her coffee is stone cold by now, but she's used to it, taking sips gingerly now and again and shuddering with distaste. She's pushed the coffee as far away as it will go right to the edge of the table without actually falling off, but continues to think of it with affection, a rightful participant in the coffee shop ritual, more than a prop, really, a supporting actor, a character actor, even. A time will come when she gives up coffee altogether for the clear taste of Earl Grey tea, but the time is not now, when we meet her, at the cusp of the new millenium, not now, as she sits with edgy energy, nervous, anxious, manic. This energy that she likes so much, that she thinks is cool, post-modern and witty, makes her drink the cold coffee and scribble scribble scribble in her notebook, like an aging Harriet the Spy. There is constant chatter and constant bustle in her head, in the coffee shop, until you don't know which is which anymore. The staff in this particular establishment is the epitome of Montreal cool, moonlighting as barristas in betwen DJing gigs and editing a lounge-lifetsyle webzine, except that this is just before lounge-lifestyle, so the webzine is but a glimmer in their eye as they chat and flirt with patrons and each other. Especially each other. It is that energy. It is that energy that she feels, that she generates, that has no outlet. She watches people walk by on the street in front of the coffee house. Downtown walkers with that dowtown walk. Her longing to be a part of the world is palpable, you can reach out and touch it, it pulsates. And so she drinks her coffee, cold, and scribbles in her notebook, and dreams and wishes, knots twisting in her stomach at the half-formed vision, watching people, watching herself. You just know she's going to go nova.