The coffee shop was my happy place, as comforting as a familiar movie. Aromas and chattering, the scene ever different and the same, everyone both star and bit-part-player ambiance.
The coffee shop was in the town square, a marquee overlooked by the stone lions. Around the edges were food vendors, giving the middle of the town a sort of market atmosphere.
The coffee shops were once cloistered and close, so many tables and so little room, that was part of their charm. Now the coffee shops are open air, a sort of covered patio with tables a respectful distance apart. We wrap up in the winter time, dressed for the occasion, hands warmed and breath rising in serendipitous puffs.
The coffee shop of white cups and black coffee, of small jugs filled with cream, has that ambience of friendly chatter. Here I can have my own seat, gain the feeling of being social, yet have the confidence that I can enjoy my own contemplations at leisure.
The coffee shop air swirls with aromatic dreams, little wonder it is a place we writers are drawn to.
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