Decaf Doldrums

The coffee grounds brown of the floor glistens with an old polish, worn from the feet of weary commuters and early birds. The pungent perfume of fresh arabica beans soak the air, as they are boiled, mashed, steeped, and tossed about.

In the early hours, especially in the wintry weather, the transit of seemingly floating orbs of lights stream by quietly and uniformly, each after the other. As soon as the neon begins to glow, the world is strutting along the avenue, already deep in its quotidian.

Friday night! The little shop is teeming with occupants, each with a softly steaming cup, decorated with cream and sweets, decadently adorned with extra flair. The hushed tones turn to excited and exuberant chatter as the events of the evening are recounted. A happening music venue, a run in with the band, and preferential treatment all abound as the lucky listeners reiterate again and again, to any and all eager ears in shot.

The door is light in my hand, a glass pane with a thin wood frame, yet still more than enough to enclose the shop comfortably. My quiet steps towards the counter are a welcome sound to the staff. Smiles abound, and niceties traded. Ordered and paid for, my coffee comes in a sturdy recycled and plain paper cup, and escorted with utmost care into my possession. A warm welcome to indulge a sweet caffeine tooth.