Secret Agent Theme Week enters its second day with a request to write about: the mission.
I've got a list of seven prompts I'm planning to use this week, but I'm going to keep an eye on where you guys go with things to make sure they will all still be workable. Hopefully I've created a framework that allows lots of wiggle room though.
I was quite excited to learn this afternoon that I'll be attending another craft fair this weekend in Osoyoos. I had inquired last week about space and was told that I was second on their waiting list, but that they'd also yet to receive final confirmation from two of their intended vendors. Knowing how things can go off at the final minute for vendors, I was considering getting myself ready to be a last second replacement.
I'm glad that, instead, I've got a couple of days to get things sorted out. That includes putting in another rush order for more prints of four of my greeting cards. This is a more established market, in a better location than the one I attended last weekend. So if the weather is more agreeable, I should see quite a few more faces in front of my table.
Here's hoping, anyway.
He sits in a crowded coffee shop, sipping from a steaming mug while appearing to peruse the day's local newspaper. The noise level is nearing cacophony, between chatting customers and machines struggling to keep pace with the caffeine demands of the neighbourhood's populace.
The man doesn't seem bothered by the commotion, his attention rarely straying from the front page article before him. A steady finger reaches up to adjust his glasses at regular intervals, pushing them further up his nose or shifting them into more comfortable positions for his ears.
He has been coming to this shop several times a week for the last month, his routine hardly varying at all. Paper under his left arm, order a medium regular coffee with room for cream, add said cream and a squeeze of honey, and find a table by the window. Preferably, it seemed to the two staff who paid enough attention to notice, with a view of Main Street.
Another adjustment to his glasses, a slight frown. If any other patron had the chance to use those lenses they would likely complain of a headache, or at least wonder why only a small percentage of the words on the front page were legible while wearing them. Given enough time, they might have been able to decipher the message being transmitted.
But he, of course, never allowed them to go beyond his reach. They were too important for such carelessness.
Another frown, a deeper one this time. He puts down the paper, takes off the glasses, and places them carefully in an interior pocket of his jacket. He finishes his drink while clearly thinking of something else before vacating his table for an arriving college couple. The girl has more perfume than sense, the boy too busy staring at her legs to care.
He exits the shop, considers his surroundings for a few moments, and then disappears into the crowd.