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The coffee shop
prose [ ]

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by [mircealupu ]

2013-12-30  |     | 



I am very fond of a coffee shop where I go almost every week, after work or on weekends.
I would indulge there in a hot coffee, whilst lying back and reading a magazine or looking at the paintings hanged on the walls. The outside light is filtered by the windows' shades, so everything is shrouded in a beautiful orange hue- people, tables, paintings, glasses.
My favorite corner is on the 2nd floor of the coffee shop not only because up there are less customers but also because of the paintings.
When I have no magazines to read I like making up stories about the paintings, it is simply a game that adds more savor to the coffee.
Next to the table where I was sitting that day I noticed a large painting portraying coffee beans spilling from a sack on a table, around a steamy mug. In the background,two blurred hands belonging to a young woman were picking coffee beans from a plantation.
I had no idea what story to make up about that painting. Fortunately, I'd bought a nice magazine from the nearby bookstore, so I proposed myself to enjoy the reading and take a look at the nice pictures between the covers while having my coffee.
On my way to the 2nd floor I'd spent a few pennies on a bag of coffee beans and was very anxious to discover the flavor of the coffee.
After a while, I put the magazine aside and opened the bag to sniff the flavors. I made a wrong move and the beans spilled from the bag over the table and around the steamy mug. From nowhere an old woman appeared and approached my table.
She started picking the beans with a faint smile as if she was trying to tell me "don't worry, it happens".
I kept looking at her soft hands without any wrinkle and remained silent.
I finished my coffee, then I looked at the painting one more time, and walked down the stairs of the coffee shop.
I got into my car with a smile on my face. What a coincidence!
A little later, I remembered that I forgot the magazine on the table.
-Who needs it anyway, I said.



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