The music is ambient, the lights are low. Scraping chairs fall into the beat of the soft jazz; the receipt emerging from the till yet another piece of percussion. I am sat with a laptop- the quintessential 21st century person.

Facing the entrance, I have seen every person who's entered the bottle shop since me. People come in alone, looking harried. Some come in unlikely partnerships whilst others look perfect for one another.

An email pings: something is expected from me. I type and click, my brain whirring. Productivity is a noble goal. I am excited for the buzz I'll feel when I achieve something, anything.

Breathing deeply, I press 'send' and take in the scent of frying ingredients, a real mix of vegetables and carbs. The door opens once more, a light December breeze aerating the space.

I am used to many things, having moved to Los Angeles, where anything seems to go. That doesn't stop a small gasp escaping my throat when this tall, mustachioed man enters, a firecracker scent reaching me from even meters away.

The barista audibly sighs, assessing the queue and balancing the lesser of two evils. He scurries from behind the bar, grasping the sleeved arm of the new presence. "The restrooms are this way," he scolds, the two men moving in tandem out of my view. A woman in the queue with a crop is already drafting her poor Google review.

Before he rounds the corner, the man catches my eye. A singular jet-black curl peeks from beneath a worn green cap. With a short wave of his wrench, he manages to connect with me for a mere second. Then, he's gone.

I recommence my tapping, waiting eagerly for the plumber to re-emerge. The barista clears the queue, again and again, as it goes from a matcha latte crowd to a local IPA crowd. The sun crests the building opposite.