My mind won’t get quiet. Neither will my daughter. Writing date number two begins. One hot Tazo Passion tea and an iced decaf white chocolate mocha. “I’m cold,” she tells me, hanging tight to her iced coffee. My tea is still too hot to drink, her cup is nearly drained.

She scrunches up her nose at my computer/reading glasses. “You look better without glasses,” she tells me with a consoling tone. “No offense.” A smile to ease the blow. Personally, I think they’re cute. But I’m three days away from turning 39. What do I know?

“Only three days” she asks.

“You gonna write or what?”

I struggle to tune out—the Big Band tunes over the loudspeaker blend with the trio of men talking business at the next table, and my earbuds don’t block out either, but at least make it impossible to discern what they’re saying, helping me to concentrate on writing rather than eavesdropping.

“Hey! It’s all gone!” She slurps what’s left clinging to the ice in her cup. I’m about to make her move to the other side of the table so she stops reading what’s on my computer screen. She giggles. But she’s still reading.

And talking.

And I’m still trying to write. Trying to focus. Trying to clear my mind and shake off the tension of the day that lingers like the smell of cigarette smoke after a night out. I can’t get rid of it. Stubborn, this feeling in my insides. It will not be coaxed away.

“I like that,” she says. “It will not be coaxed away.” She hates that I keep quoting her. But it hasn’t caused her to be quiet and write yet. So I’ll keep at it.

“Good idea.” Pencil to paper, her side pressed against mine, we begin, finally, to write something.