March 10

Café B.


Commotions of morning traffic bounce off cafe walls. People trudge to an unheard beat, cycles, and feet. I can smell them all.

At my waist a round cut of wood. Its sheen holds grain fine, and smooth. Not truly red. Its fine haloes possess dark tendrils that underline a ring of coffee milk, a last hoorah by whomever warmed my seat.

The waitress’ face enshrines a mesmerising smile as she quietly erases it away. Her voice seductive asks, ‘what do you desire today?’ ‘The usual,’ I answer, and watch as she slips through the serving bay. Behind me a wooden chair shatters ambience against tiled floor.

My ears squeeze to defend their drums. I see a child whose want is to hide from everyone.

The comings and goings of colours reflect movement in mirror the length of entrance wall above seat. On occasion it captures the eye of those who trace smiling faces as they shuffle to friends that merrily greet.

Conversations vary from adversary to friend. Some voices held quiet, occasionally behind cupped hands, but never the rowdy words of the construction workers in their hi-vis shirts bound by reflective bands.
Heavenly is the aroma of coffee as I wait with tap of feet. Comfortable as I be, in consternation I sit in wait for my treat.

Today, as always, with coffee will come the largest slice of carrot cake. Its icing thick with nut crumb, oh bloody yum.

Like a mirage on the cruel sea of chaos, my morsels of joy balanced on one arm, she comes like Florence Nightingale on a dark night. She tends to me.

Forever in my heart she remains the heroine, of Café B.

Photo by karl chor on Unsplash


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