Thursday, 17 September 2015

Everything Is So Fucking Rosy That Birds Sit In My Hair And Dont Even Shit

I couldn't do much well, but I could make a certain type of man happy for three to five minutes a couple of times a day. I would tap the portafilter against the rubbish bin, shedding the spent husk that was my previous trick. I'd make idle chit-chat whilst I refilled the filter basket, without much care to be thorough, tapped it off, patted it down and slotted it into the group. I was home with my fingers wrapped around that black shaft. Humming, as the conversation died, I would wipe the wand as I waited for the stream to come to an end. It was all about the froth anyway. The milky foam float - a perfect reaction of time and temperature. No one remembered the coffee nearly as much as those blissful little bubbles amidst a good froth.

Today, an awkward guy came in. He was nearly a stranger by this point in my life. I would've once called him a potential, a date-worthy gentleman (my standards having at that point plummeted to a man that was both literate and genial). He crept along the back wall of the shop, scraping his woollen pullover against the brickwork, as if gravity was currently working incorrectly for him and the wall was somehow the only thing keeping him from being dragged away. He called out, "l-latte please," and I nodded nearly sincerely. It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing it at him. My simple protest came in the form of resting it on the counter and waiting for him to try and approach, to take it from my hand. He stood there pressed against the wall, staring at my hand around his take-away coffee cup. He desperately wanted me to walk it toward him so he could grab it and run out the door, but instead I left it there, left it waiting to be taken. He never took it. He indecisively fumbled then slid out the door and walked into the street.

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