A/N: my first twilight fic! tell me what you think! the next chapter i think will be edwards POV. tell me what you think. enjoy and review.
She imagined he wore glasses. They would suit him, too. Not those gawky ones that don't look good on anyone. But he would look good in these. And he would wear them while he worked on his writing. Yes, he was a writer; she was sure of it. Those ink stains on his hands couldn't be from nothing, could they? No, they were surely the marks of a dedicated writer who spent hours poring over a tattered rimmed notebook, spreading his ideas on paper, tied together with beautiful prose and words that would make a poet green with envy.
And when he came into the hole-in-the-wall diner she worked at to make some money, it was for pure inspiration. No one would really want to come here for the coffee, it was too weak, too watered down – she would know, she makes it every day. No, he liked to sit and stare at the people go buy, others getting on and off the buses, his mind wandering down one street and up another as he formulated the next page in his story or whatever it was he wrote. She couldn't pin that part down. What he wrote. She had every other aspect of his life mapped out. Except for what he spent his time writing.
Did he write poems? Novels? Great words of philosophy that when found, years after his death, everyone would know what type of genius he truly was? Oh, but she knew. She knew about his great mind and his delicate way of tangling words together, even if it was just in her own head.
"Order's up," Patty, the overweight cook said from behind the counter, using a forearm to brush stray strands of black curly hair that was haphazardly piled high on her head. She probably broke a few health code regulations for her hair alone, but no one ever said anything. Bella was pulled quickly from her reverie.
"Bella, did you hear me?" Patty's voice was impatient as the younger woman pulled the plate off the counter.
"I heard you," she muttered, walking from behind the counter, a hot plate of eggs and bacon in her hand. Now she was just mad. She couldn't even finish a daydream about an imaginary boy that she had yet to say more than "Refill?" to. But she would. She knew it. It was only a matter of time.
It was only a matter of time for a lot of things it seemed, for Bella Swan. Just a little more time before she wrote her next book, under the pseudonym of Renee Cullen (the first name her own mother's; Cullen being the last name of her best friend Alice, whom she met at University of Washington seven years prior as freshmen).
She didn't have to work at Rose Café, but she found it refreshing, something different. Not to mention the endless possibilities of characters that streamed through the building, the main one of her focus sitting in a booth by the window. Yes, the boy of her imagination.
He sat there in all his glory every morning, drinking a cup of coffee, sometimes ordering a muffin – at his own risk from Patty's extraneous hair – and he would sit. His hair glinting gold in the morning sun when it shone through the window, his golden eyes shifted downcast or towards the busy Seattle street. And his hauntingly beautiful features that made her tongue thick, heart stutter and have to restart, her hands shake and turn her into a blubbering, incoherent mess would never change. Angular cheekbones, perfectly shaped eyes, and of course the hair alone Bella could wax poetry about. Sometimes he would bring a friend and they would sit and talk quietly, but mostly he sat alone, until about 10 AM, when he would leave.
Bella often spent the majority of her shift imagining if he saw what she did in the streets outside. If maybe he was using the people who flowed through the diner as characters in his story as she would.
"Hey!" Bella jumped when Alice sprang into her line of sight, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Hey," she said as she set an order of waffles down in front of an elderly man. She wiped her hands on the apron before turning to the pixie-like girl with short black hair pointing in every direction. Alice was the fashionable one of the two, the one who actually cared about her appearance. And she not-so-subtlety forced her opinions on Bella. However, this morning, there was little Alice could say about her friend's jeans and fitted black t-shirt when she was working at Rose's.
"Did you hear that Rosalie is coming back into town?" Alice asked, practically dancing along the counter as Bella walked behind it to refill customers drinks.
"From New York?" Rosalie was the third girl who ended up in their suite during freshmen year. While it was supposed to be a four-person suite, it only ended up being the three girls, as the fourth was forced to abdicate her dorm due to an unforeseen pregnancy with the captain of the football team from her local high school.
Rosalie was the beautiful one. Sleek blonde hair, perfect posture and decorum, she never looked out of place. Anywhere.
"Yeah, she's reopening her auto shop here in Seattle." Oh yeah, she repairs vintage cars for her career. No one who didn't know her would suspect this, but it was no secret to those who were close to her that she had some inexplicable car fetish.
Bella put another order down in front of a young college student who looked bedraggled from pulling an all-nighter, and sighed. "Well, I guess it was only a matter of time."
"She gets in tomorrow night. Dinner party! It'll be at our place! It'll be a lot of fun, Bells, I promise. I'll even bring you home a new outfit from the studio!"
"Oh, will you really? Well then, count me in!" The sarcasm dripped from Bella's words and Alice shot her a glare before plunging back into the plans.
"You sit here," Bella said, "some of us have to work, but I'm on break in five. And you can regale me with the details then."
Bella picked up the coffee pot and began to walk through the diner, sidestepping fellow waitresses and little kids who were throwing toys across the booth. She stopped at HIS booth.
"Refill?" she asked softly. She really had to come up with something else to say. And soon.
"Sure," he said quietly, sliding his cup across the table. She tried to hold the pot steady as she poured it, praying her habitual clumsiness would hold off for just a little bit longer until she was away from his table and not inhaling the intoxicating smell she just knew was him.
"Thanks," he said, his voice as quiet as his previous statement. She nodded slightly, looking anywhere but at him. She was sure once she made eye contact, the shit would hit the fan, literally. Things would be spilled, people would trip, and all because of her.
She put the coffee pot on the counter as Sylvia, another waitress, came onto her shift, allowing Bella to take her break. She sat with Alice at the counter as she prattled about the upcoming dinner party, tuning her out, and instead, looking at Mystery Man out of the corner of her eye. He couldn't have been older than twenty-six, twenty-seven at the oldest, could he?
"Bella!" Alice said, her eyes narrowed. Bella whipped her head towards Alice so fast her heard her neck crack. She rubbed the sore spot as Alice continued talking, now that she had Bella's attention.
When Bella looked back the booth, he was gone. She turned around to the door and sighed as she saw it close behind him, the bell clattering noisily.
He would be back tomorrow, she knew, but she couldn't help but feel like she should be doing more.
Like he was more than just some regular customer in some dingy diner, with a writer's-blocked waitress getting him coffee every morning.
She braced herself on the counter as she stood up to get back to work, with a promise to Alice to come home when she got off and go to the store with her for the dinner party.
But her thoughts remained with him, where they had been for the past six months.