I refuse to write somebody else's words as my own here. I'm not like that. Maybe i'll rewrite something that came to me on a particularly boring morning shift in the coffee shop I work at. I hope you like it.
I stand, my legs groaning in protest as they support my weight. The football last night has taken its toll on my frame. The shop is neither hot or cold, but waves of both extreme seem to parade around, unseen, bringing shivers and discomfort to those few people who have ventured out so early for coffee.
The music here is very inoffensive here, perfect, I guess, to listen to when sipping on your preferred mix of milk and coffee. A fridge motor steps up a gear, adding yet another sound to the cacophony of other motors, from AC units, coffee machines and grills. Plus the occasional turning of a newspaper page.
It's been five, maybe 6 minutes since my last customer and, as I adjust my stance, I ponder just how necessary it is for me to be here. I know what drinks people have, I suppose. I've made all of five drinks this morning and have already fallen into autopilot, my limbs acting (seemingly) independently from my brain. This allows me to wonder while I prepare the drinks. I think of my ex, my bills and my degree, all three make me shiver slightly. Do I perhaps look a little vacant in this semi- automated state? I realise I don't care.
I've taken to not wearing my watch, because a watched pot never boils, or something. My watch is pretty heavy , so in its absence my arm feels oddly light, and perhaps unsurprisingly, naked.
I want to write about the customers, but I won't allow them to tarnish this prose, which i've enjoyed writing.
Maybe they'll get a mention another time.
Unknown "Lane" Purring
- 16 years, 4 days ago
