So I'm trying to write comedy...
Yeah, you, reader. Want to a hear a joke?
Probably not very funny, huh?
That’s the thing. I don’t find myself to be a very funny person. Maybe I have funny stories from other people or reuse jokes that other sources have given me (courtesy of my idiotic, yet loveable circle of friends and the internet), but my humour isn’t original. It’s funny, but in the ironic sense rather than a humorous sense, since (hah) I was invited to join this writing competition some person on the internet invited me to. Since I’m somewhat good at writing and tend to upload my works on a certain site (which was how that person from the internet probably found me), I thought to myself, “Why not? This seems like a fun thing to do.”
And that was how I find myself inside a busy cafe in the middle of a Wednesday, staring at my laptop as it shows me a document file. A thin black line was blinking against the white background of a blank page near the top left corner. I glare at the black line as if it was mocking me, taunting me to do something I knew I was going to fall short on. It’s like looking at one of the many annoying side-quest-giving, non-player characters in many role-playing games, with their blank stares, static faces, and the various signs on their hand to indicate that you have something (menial) to do for them. It probably wasn’t even important, but rather a way to make sure the story is stretched long enough to add build up to the game by the time the player reaches the ending.
I hate you, blinking black line.
I was good at writing romantic comedies and action, but pure humour was out of my league. I glared at the innocent laptop screen for a few more seconds before leaning back into the wooden chair with my arms crossed while taking a break from my mental frustrations to examine the scenery around me in a frantic search for inspiration. I was sitting next to a brick wall with a shelf behind me. As I leaned outward, I saw that the shelves were stacked with various bags of coffee beans and tools for making coffee. I never really found much satisfaction in coffee, preferring instead for hot chocolate (which was sitting next to my laptop near the edge of the glass table, non-threatening in any way). I scanned the cafe, seeing various people relaxing on the various chairs available, from sofas and couches (I don’t know the difference) in the centre of the room), to wooden chairs that were assigned neatly to glass tables held up by a metal frame as it held a sizeable sheet of glass. I looked to the various employees working at the counter near the entrance of the cafe, one of them catching my eye as he was working diligently with a coffee machine. His face was shone above a stack of refrigerated pastries of various kinds, ranging with flavours and scents both sweet and savoury. He was focused on the cup of latte he was brewing, and when he looked up to find his customer the light from the overheard bulbs seemed to glimmer off his soft eyes. His short, raven hair was adorably left flat and slightly swept to a side, which left enough room for my eyes to transition to his strong, broad shoulders, which gave way to lanky arms that I can only imagine to be filled with strength as they catch me while I fall for him.
I sighed longingly, letting myself melt by the comforting warmth that he seemed to radiate. The (gorgeous) man I’ve been describing has been the subject of my dreams in recent months. The dreams include events that can be described as humorous (such as having us both embarrassing ourselves while lovingly staring into each other’s eyes afterwards), romantic (such as cuddling underneath a cherry tree in the spring), tragic (in a similar fashion to a Korean drama with one of us dying on a hospital bed), or even downright dirty (it’s always my place at 8; use your imagination).
My eyes never left him as I felt my heart softened and slowed at his sight. I felt a small smile creep to my face as I recalled the many dreams I had with him. My vision was clouded with frivolous tales that could only exist within the saliva and the salt that is stored within my pillow due to many tired nights of dreaming such romantic things. I sighed once the fantasy reached a certain good part, which was abruptly interrupted by a weird question from the knight that helped me slay a thousand little kobolds for some meek villager with an infestation problem.
“Would you like sugar with that?”
I blinked as frequently as the black line on my blank document.
My eyes blinked against the blank expanse of my mind as I realised that the guy I’ve been fantasising about is standing right beside me with another cup of my hot chocolate in hand. And he just asked if I wanted sugar with it.
Quick! Say something smooth!
“A-are you gay?” My question was meekly voiced behind my scarf.
“Um, excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow, but I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were giving away a feeling of hostility or amusement. Or both.
“I-I mean…” Quick, think of a smooth segue! “Are you gay for your job, like happy, like the old sense of the word gay?”
He eyed me suspiciously at my quick statement, and merely laughed it off.
I nearly dodged a bullet-
“I know what you meant there,” he said softly, causing my heart to fall slightly. “But that’s a nice save, I’ll give you that.”
And instantly my heart jumped into my throat, cutting off any means for me to reply to him.
“Sugar?” he asked again. “Or no since you look so sweet?”
I was speechless.
I froze beneath his gaze, which began to become curious as he leaned in as if to inspect me. My heart quickened the closer he got, until I could hear his faint breathing and smell faint soap when only his eyes as dark as the hot chocolate he held (and the dark chocolate that was on my table) filled my vision.
“Would you like to see if I’m gay?” he asked quietly.
I caught my breath as he caught me lips in his-
And I gasped heavily into my pillow as I tried to return the air back into my lungs. I sat up quickly, expecting to see those deep eyes only to find myself sitting on my bed. The same white walls stared back at me as I tried to imprint the dream into my brain, but it was fleetingly fading away. That was the closest I got to seeing his eyes. At the realisation that it was all a dream, I groaned with much disdain and drowned myself in the clean fabric of my pillow. I checked my phone on the table beside my bed to check the time; his face smiled on the backdrop of my phone beneath the time: “7:15”.
I smiled at his sight as I stretched my limbs.
Might as well…
I stood up and walked to the bathroom to shower. As soon as I stepped I smiled at the sight of the mirror.
There he was again, staring back at me with that gorgeous smile of his. I leaned in and he leaned in as well. We were both dressed in the same exact grey shirt that slightly flowed over our thin, but built frames. We winked at each other before finally greeting each other.
And the romance blooms in my head with the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen.
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