The Factory by Amy Witt

I remember the first time when I visited him at the factory. His dark brown eyes were intoxicating and he had this spirit about him that I was drawn to. He was a talented man moved by music, art, film, writing, photography…and fashion. His style was beautiful and he walked with such swag. He was unlike any other man I had met before but he also was from another country.  I didn't know much about him, in fact I hardly knew him at all. We met in a coffee shop. I was sitting on my laptop high on the clouds, vibing and writing with my head phones in oblivious to the world. I didn't care really what any one thought because I was so into what I was typing.

I looked up and our eyes met. We instantly had this connection, one I cannot describe. As he approached me all I could think was what does he want? He introduced himself and instantly, I wanted to know everything about him. 

He asked me what I was working on and I told him I was a writer. We got intellectual for a second talking about ourselves, our goals, our dreams. He asked what my favorite drink was and then got up and returned with one. We drank coffee in the corner laughing and talking. Time passed so fast and before I knew it I had been at the coffee shop with him for 8 hours.

The factory was next to an alley. It was discreetly hidden in the back of a store. As I walked in the ambiance, smell, and environment sucked me in. It was like a whirlwind of emotions, sounds, personalities all mixed in one like some form of art. There were different ethnicities, cultures, and artists sitting around all in their own world. The factory, I would soon find out was a world of its own; our world.