This moment between turning the sign from closed to open is the quietest. Past the glass of the door the world seems to move slower, and I have five minutes of stillness and sips of coffee before the café opens. Business suits with clipped orders for espressos, the slow drawl of caramel macchiatos with extra cream to fuel those half-written novels and the tired requests for coffee leave my complimentary muffin forgotten. The morning rush is a mess of coffee spills and pastry flakes and when the whirring of the blenders starts to slow I can stop to breathe. To watch. Continue reading “Coffee”
His plan was flawless. Unconventional, maybe, but he was far from worries of morality when he lived in the backseat of a car. Getting the sign was his biggest setback. In the end he called in a favour from a talented friend with a stencil and an ask-no-questions attitude. It cost him his car radio, but the local news section was a small price to pay. He’d rather have the paint and scrap metal.
Beware: pickpockets. The sign was official looking enough to prompt caution from most visitors. If people wondered why they were being warned of theft in a place populated by skeletons, they didn’t say anything. Pockets were checked and bags secured, and it told him exactly where to strike.