Early Morning Coffee Shop

the-creative-exchange-d1ngW7SNehM-unsplash

Gale force winds. Slanted rain. Flooding expected. The door is closed. The coffee shop full. The hiss from the coffee machine competes with voices and the clang of cutlery on plates and saucers. The noise assails my nose so that I can’t smell anything. I mean the noise assails my ears but I still can’t smell. Maybe it is too cold. The weather. My nose.

At the table next to me women are talking about manicures and the colour of nail polish. I want to overhear other conversations. Bloody gossip. News about books or films. The answer to climate change and plastic pollution. A plot to assassinate the president.

The door opens. A cold wind assaults my knees. A baby arrives wrapped up in a carry-cot. It looks like an overstuffed picnic basket.

On the bench next to me a child bounces and kicks. The mother is so absorbed in her phone that she doesn’t notice. I am so irritated I want to leave but I don’t.

Close to 10am the coffee shop clears, and the waiters prepare the tables for a lunchtime crowd. Now I can smell the earth-roast of the coffee, the yeasty baked bread and a strange sharp smell of mustard.

At the end of the morning when I have drunk my coffee and eaten my eggs, I will have written (it seems like a miracle) one thousand five hundred words.

 

(Image by The Creative Exchange on Unsplash)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *