A man sat quietly outside a cafe, gazing at the traffic of people heading to work, and various appointments. An empty cup on the table, reminiscent of the coffee it had just held, a blank paper next to the cup, and a pen in hand.
Smoke flowed elegantly from the cigarette on his lips. His eyes fixed on the people, he tapped the pen in his hand gently. An urge to write, an urge to create, emanated from within his core.
An urge so great it made him anxious. Yet something was amiss. Nothing seemed to take form, nothing made sense. He flipped through the notes in his head, all the plot lines, characters, places, things happening in the vast world yet written. "Why?" He asked, but heard no anwser.
The cigarette rattled quietly as the man inhaled. His eyes turned away from the flow of people, and towards the cafe. Behind the window, a beautiful waitress stood behind the counter, smiling to the customer in front of her. Paintings of fields and meadows filled the walls. A calming light danced around as the lampshade moved slowly.
The man turned back to the paper in front of him. Yet, nothing.
The man heard movement next to him, and raised his head. There she stood, with a coffee pan in hand and a warmth about her like no other. With a tone of kindness, she asked; "Would you like a refill?" The man, smitten by her radiance, barely uttered; "Yes, please." She filled the cup on the table, and gave him a smile before walking inside.
The man sat there quietly for a moment, gazing into the coffee still slowly swirling in the cup. A sigh of relief, a weight lifted, a fresh wind. He wrote the words; "It began with a smile."