Forty words per minute. Her thumbs are racing from each other heading nowhere. If her nails were metal, her LCD probably were full of scratches by now. She looked out the window. It was cold.
Her coffee began to drop its temperature. The cafe was crowded but at that moment she was the loneliest person on Earth. The coffee's steam began to dissipate, as tears in her eyes started to well-up.
Forty words per minute, but nothing she can do now. And she left like the steam of that cold coffee.
-A practice writing with the help of a friend Carl
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