Ironically, Nothing But Coffee served more than coffee, evidenced by the pile of napkins covered in cupcake crumbs and soiled wrappers from multiple sugary confections, not to mention the collection of empty coffee cups littering the table. 

The 24-hour coffee shop in what was known as Koreatown had been his most recent haunt, namely because it was actually open all day and all night. He never had to pack up in a hurry and find another spot to sit and stare at a bright yellow notepad or an empty screen, the cursor blinking at him in taunting rhythm.

Can't. Get. This. Song. Right.

Can't. Get. This. Song. Right. 

Can't. Get. This. Song. Right. 

A soft ding sounded in his ear and a little red bubble appeared in the notification tray at the bottom of his screen. He clicked on the green Whatsapp program and multiple conversations in various stages of flux appeared. A new message was highlighted. 

"Hi. Stuck?"

He was hesitant to answer. Then he'd get wrapped up in conversation and not work. But... it wasn't like he was actually working, so he popped up the screen to reply. 

"Like crazy. Sorry, forgot to let you know I was working."

"By now, I know your moves."

"So I'm predictable? Is that good or bad?"

He could almost hear her laughter while reading that last question. "No comment. But at midnight on a Wednesday, if you're not asleep, you're working."

He yawned. He had to admit, he was pretty rote and a creature of habit. Or... predictable. "Or maybe I'm asleep at a coffee shop." 

"And because I can track your phone, I know where you are. Where you've been for hours. Maybe you need a break? I can come down for a few."

"No, that's ok." 

He shook his head, like she could see him. But he was so predictable, she'd have known he was going to say no. And he knew she wasn't really coming down. She'd already be in her pajamas and under the covers. 

"I need to work and while you're a beautiful distraction, you are a distraction." He softened the rejection with a smiley face. And when she didn't respond, a heart.  "Don't be mad. I have to get this right."

"Oh, settle down over there," came her response, finally. "I dropped the remote. Why are you killing yourself over this song? You don't work like this unless it's a big thing."

"It's kind of a big thing. This song is supposed to open the new album. I just want it to be good enough."

"You know it will be, right?"

"I'm not that predictable. I have to work at it. It's not magic."

"Okay. I know I can't tear you away. Just checking on you."

"Thanks. Go to sleep." He laughed aloud, reading back the order that was meant in love. The eye roll that he knew was coming appeared. 

"Only because I'm tired and not because you're bossy. Night. Love you."

"Love you." 

He ignored the other conversations.  All were going on without him and if he got caught up in them, there would be no reason to sit at a 24-hour cafe sucking down coffee and shoving down pastries when he could be at home, comfortable with his girlfriend and a bad movie on cable. 

He sighed. Then yawned. The coffee wasn't all that strong. 

He propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm. "What if I told you, baby...." He sang softly, his pen tapping the melody against the laptop case. "That I loved you from... l've loved...that I've loved you from...hmmm..." 

He heard a throat clear, a muted sound from somewhere around him. He sat up, his gaze searching what he'd thought was an empty coffee shop. The source of the sound was seated at the table next to him. Not super close but... given all the places a person could sit, someone had sat right next to him. 

She seemed super calm. Not weird in the way that strangers can be if you used to be a teen sensation and they knew who you were. Her shoulder length hair fell in dark waves;  glasses with thick black frames, the kind that were in style now, highlighted espresso brown eyes. She hummed lightly to herself, going about her business. 

Maybe she hadn't recognized him. If she had, she didn't let on. She shot him a thin smile, then went about unpacking a backpack full of supplies. 

He shook his head, burying his irritation. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't realize anyone else was here." 

"It's okay," she answered, digging into the bag and pulling out even more things. They looked like pencils. Drawing tools, he realized. She gestured toward the pile he'd been staring at. "Couldn't sleep. Decided to get up and draw. My apartment is a couple of blocks away and I can't make coffee to save my life, so..."

She shrugged. "And that throat clearing thing wasn't for you. I legit had something stuck in my throat. You can sing all you want, over there."

He laughed. And relaxed. "Still... I'll try not to bug you. Even though you sat right next to me and the whole shop is empty." 

"You're not bugging me," she replied, then brought out a pair of heavy duty headphones. "And I sat over here for the same reason you sat over here. If I have to hear the baristas have one more vapid conversation, I will stab someone with a charcoal pencil."

He couldn't help it... he laughed. So did she. "If it makes you feel better, I'm about to put on some thrash metal and draw. I won't hear a thing. Sing and tap away."

"Thrash... metal? What... what do you draw to that?"

"Whatever comes to me. It's something I started using in art school to block out the world. After a while it's like white noise."

"Hunh." He shifted back to his computer, the screen blank except for a few stilted lines of lyrics. After a few minutes, he sighed, audibly. Maybe tonight was a lost cause. He was tired anyway...

"Okay, I heard that," said his neighbor, the headphones wrapped around her neck. "Through these, over thrash metal. Are... you okay?"

"Yup." He pulled the laptop closer, sat up straight and rested his fingers on the keyboard. Then slouched. "No, actually. I'm tired. And I'm letting this stress me out when I could be at home asleep. Why can't it just... come out good?"

"You want some advice?"

His eyes slid closed. Imperceptibly, he shook his head no. She laughed though, so she saw it. 

"I'm going to give you some anyway. I'm not just an art student taking part time classes and living in a shithole and delivering pizzas at night. I'm an actual artist, with bookings and exhibits. And sometimes... like when I'm creating for a show, especially one with a theme, I put a lot of pressure on myself. It has to be perfect the first time. It has to have a deep meaning. It has to be something that's never been done before. Revolutionary. But it doesn't, really. The fact that I created it already makes it different. I just create and take it from there." 

"Thanks," he replied, giving her the courtesy of a glance before completely ignoring her advice, however applicable. He couldn't ‘think good thoughts' his way out of finishing the song. 

"You have no idea who I am, but I know you. I listen to more than thrash music and I know your work." She paused to smile, this time with empathy and compassion. "I know the struggle. But it's always good. It'll come to you. And it'll be amazing, if only because it came from you."

Her headphones went back onto her head, over her ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her sketchpad fill with curves and points. Images appeared, then were filled in. Hints of shadows were confirmed with the stroke of a wrist and the point of a pencil. 

It took him back to the days when he'd use art to decompress. It had been a long time since he'd brought out the paints and sketch pads. Writing and creating music had become his artistic outlet. 

And now it was running him ragged. 

### 

He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he was awake again. Or, more to the point, when his head rolled off of his palm and smacked the surface of the table. 

"Ow! Shit," he whined, yawning and rubbing the spot on his forehead where he'd banged it on the table. It was bright in the shop. Daylight. He hadn't nodded off for a few minutes. He'd been asleep for hours. 

Panicking, he checked for his belongings: laptop, leather satchel. Wallet, phone, watch, money. Even the designer shades he carried around... all were there, in their places. 

He heaved a long, relieved sigh and started gathering items to pack up. So much for pulling an all-nighter. He couldn't even stay awake to write anymore. 

He reached for the laptop, then realized the lid had been closed. He was sure he'd nodded off while the computer was open, screen bright and empty, the cursor sending him all sorts of messages. 

He flipped up the lid, just to check. It came to life, illuminating all of the little red bubbles lined up along the bottom of the program tray. But before he could get to them, he noticed that the page, the one he'd had open to write lyrics to the elusive song... was full.

He sat back, then swiveled his head left to right and back again. The artist that had been next to him was, of course, gone. 

He focused again on the page. The lyrics that had swimming around his mind in bits and pieces were now whole in the draft. It wasn't complete, but it was a hell of a lot further than he'd gotten before he fell asleep. 

"Okay. So... I... wrote that in my sleep? Or..." 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Or remember writing more of the song. But he couldn't. "I need a nap. Or another cup of coffee." 

He closed the lid on the machine and picked it up to slide it into his bag. A long sheet of paper, folded over, fluttered out from under it. He recognized it as a page from the notebook the artist was using. 

He opened the folded page. And his jaw practically dropped to the table. Drawn there was a penciled likeness of him, down to the dimple in his chin, fast asleep at the cafe, head propped on the palm of one hand. At the bottom, a note was scrawled.

‘Didn't mean to invade your space, but after you fell asleep, you started talking. Saying the same thing over and over. I realized it was the thing you were singing earlier. So I grabbed your laptop and wrote what you were saying. And then I drew you, because I couldn't help it.: :) I watched over your stuff as long as I could, then asked the manager to keep an eye on you. Good luck with the song. I'll know when I hear it that I had a part in helping you bring it out. See you around.  -V' 

"I really did write that in my sleep. Sort of." 

He packed the rest of his bag, keeping an eye out, in case the artist was still hanging out somewhere. He would have liked to get her name, to thank her at the very least. But also to buy some of her art. 

The shop was bustling, but there wasn't a woman hanging out with a giant set of headphones and a bulging backpack... who'd just happened to save his song.