Home From Home

Empty coffee mugs litter the tables, tidemarks of brown sludge marking their once fullness. Someone plays flamenco music through a poor quality speaker; it lacks the passion of a real performance. A lone girl stands behind the counter tapping her toes, her fingers out of sync on the desktop. She patiently awaits my order with a forced smile. I ask for my usual, ever the rebel. I could sit anywhere, the shop vacated, but choose my always seat. I am not here to experiment, I’m here because I’m home. The Venetian lagoon strapped to my cocoa-coloured view hints at far away places. I’m content to drink and imagine them.

13 thoughts on “Home From Home

  1. The scene I remember is quite different but your wonderful, descriptive writing brought me back through the years to a coffee shop back in my NYC neighborhood. Thank you for that experience.

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