Tap tap tap. I smiled at the familiar sound of my heels against the cobbles outside my small and square destination. Turn turn. The keys in the old lock, spinning to unleash the smell of 8:30am coffee granules and cinnamon sticks. Switch. The diner style lights flickering, one after the other filling up the snug shop. Although I hated the buzz and anxiety that came with it when people ordered, especially when dogs and the elderly sauntered in, you couldn't help but get attached to pleasant aesthetic of it all; the ache of mysterious coffee shop vibes and warmth. I'm interrupted by the oh so familiar croak that is Mrs.Crabb; but not really Mrs Crabb. "Young lady!" Her toothless mouth slurs, this time hitting the counter with her stick like old people do, for dramatic effect. "Sorry. The usual Mrs.Crabb?" If someone needed my finger prints, they would just need to check the blender, plenty there from the 50 times over I've made her damn five a day fruit frappé. Mrs Crabb but not really Mrs Crabb is a 70 something year old, who as she likes to remind me was the fiancé of the wealthy actually mr.Crabb, who tragically passed away leaving her bucket loads of pounds to splash out on everyday on a cold coffee that's main ingredient is prune juice. Who even gets married over 40 and enjoys prunes? "Satisfactory, Mrs Crabb?" I barely hold back tears knowing I'll have the pleasure of cleaning wrinkly plums up later. "Good enough madam." "Now now Mrs Crabb" I reply. "Are we not on a name to name basis?" You'd think I'd at least get that after 5 months of serving her brown, barely caffeinated smoothies. "When you get a more lady like name" she snorts, I'm greatly concerned that if she laughs her brain will slither out her nostril, as slippery and as easily as one of her ancient, infamous bogies. "Greer? What was your mother thinking! Well if my George and I had a little girl-" "You better be off Mrs Crabb, 4pm bingo is creeping up on you" I hurry, squishing her round body through the door frame, praying she'll just about fit and I'll be left with the victory that is her absence. But oh no, what you think would finally be a refreshing silence is ruined. The definite, deafening sound of strumming echoes through the street, shop and unfortunately in my ears. By the time I can only just once again hear myself think the idiotic instrument bandit has ran across the corner. Out of tune Guitar gone and all.
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YOU ARE READING
Mocha.
Teen Fiction'"You remind me of a swan you know" she said as a matter of factly, leaning over the run down counter top. "I'm a fluffy, fat bird?" Her soft, effortless reply still makes my throat as dry as the biscuits we sell last minute on a Wednesday. "You're...
