Coffee cups and silver spoons [open]
Posted: 03 Apr 2019, 22:12
By day the cafe is the colour of supermarket oranges: it has that shiny look, which is fresh, warm, and inviting. Upbeat piano music pours out of the open doors along with the aroma of freshly baked pastries and roasted coffee. There's no need for a sign above the door to let people know they're at the best cafe in the city, but there is chalky writing on the large storefront window anyway that reads: Cafe Zeit.
The interior of the café is warm and cheery, much like the outside, with bright lights, painted French furniture, and colourful walls. They serve the tea, coffee, and other hot beverages in real white china pots and saucers at round tables that mostly just seat two people and a small vase of local flowers. At the glass-fronted counter is an array of cream cakes and pastries, all with English, Danish, or French sounding names. There is a chalkboard behind the barista with the menu along with today's specials that haven't been changed in weeks. The varying vistas of Paris and the English countryside are hung to the walls in matching dark wooden frames. The customers return to their conversations as the door swings closed behind the new entrant and the cold breeze of an early spring morning is forgotten against the sunshine.
It's still pretty early in the day and the machines are yet to warm as hot as the midday sun, so Eli ponders this chance to rest a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place. He greets the woman behind the counter with a small smile. The small business owner has tired eyes and wild brown curls that are tied into a messy bun, yet there is that glimmer in her obsidian orbs; a giveaway of her good heart. She's one of those surviving sparks of hope; one of those people who hold onto who they really are despite their circumstances and experiences. She is probably in her mid thirties, but stress has painted dark circles under her eyes and penciled lines around her lips and brow. Eli asks for his croissant to be warmed beside his coffee, apologising amid his own tired smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “I'm just feeling like being a bit of a fusspot today."
He sees her spark glow a little brighter; her face is more relaxed and there is a smidge more joy in her eyes. “That's alright, dear, you be a fusspot.”
Eli laughs unexpectedly, and he knows that he's feeling that tiny bit better too. “Thanks for indulging my fusspot-ism. I needed that."
He takes his order and sits at one of the three tables that are basking in the sunlight coming through in heated beams from the front window. His coffee steams in its cup, rising in swirls of delicious aroma. It's too hot to wrap his hands around, so he loosely taps his fingers along the rim. He sits back into the chair so that he feels the nodules of the carved spindles press against his navy blazer and the mauve and white striped shirt beneath. He probably looks a little overdressed in his matching navy pants and brown loafers, but he has this youthful way of carrying himself - with his legs outstretched below the table to be crossed at the ankles and his long hair lazily combed back - that softens the formal edge of his two piece ensemble. Eli has the figure and fashion sense of a high-end model since he works the evenings at a local gym. Unfortunately, he wears clothes that are one or two sizes larger than he should and with his baby face, Eli is often assumed to be much younger than he actually is.
Somehow, this combination makes him incredibly approachable. It's only a few moments before the shadow of an elderly gentleman casts across his table and Eli hears and feels the rustle of a newspaper being thrust under his nose. He edges back as he looks up to greet the man. The first thing he notices - aside from this unusual practice of being handed a newspaper - is how bright, clean, and blue the man's eyes are. They are like two perfect circles of summer sky amidst white skin and whiskers that puff out like clouds. Startled and confused, Eli’s only response is to blink as his eyes flicker between the paper offering and the provider dressed all in plaid and corduroy.
"Well, take it then, the old man croaks. "I'm done with it now, so you can have it."
Before Eli can respond, he hears the voice of the barista reach over the room and pluck the old man’s ear like a schoolteacher chides an unruly student.
“Harvey. Let the boy be.”
“Argh,” he howls back and makes the effort to lean his head onto his shoulder to address her. “I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just being friendly. You like to read, don’t you?”
The more the man speaks, the more noticable his wheezing becomes and how easy it is to compare the sound of his voice to the crunch of pebbles underfoot. With his focus back on Eli, he’s forced to make a decision. He accepts the newspaper with a nod, a smile, and a quiet, almost inaudible, word of gratitude.
“You see, Jules.”
“Alright. Well thank you, Harvey. Now it’s time for you to catch your bus, isn’t it?” She moves out from behind the counter to fetch the man’s arm and guide him to the door of the cafe as slowly and as patiently as she can. “We don’t want you to be late for your appointment with doctor Greer.”
Harvey continues to mumble under his breath as he’s walked to the door and Eli finds himself absolutely captivated by the scene; watching even as the elderly man paces up the sidewalk. His entire body jerks and wobbles with each footfall, but his centre of gravity is so low and his determination so strong that it’s impossible to consider him capable of toppling over even as he leans a good forty-five degrees.
“I’m really sorry about the fuss,” Jules says as she returns to Eli’s side. “He’s just old and…”
“It’s really alright,” Eli interjects. “I’m more than happy to indulge some fusspot-ism too.”
This time, Jules is the one to laugh unexpectedly and casually tucks a string of curls behind her ear. Eli smiles and notices that as the sunlight hits her just right, it makes her skin glow like silken caramel.
“Thank you,” she says. “If you need anything, you just holler.”
Eli nods his head and they both get back to doing what they were before: being alone in a room full of people.
The interior of the café is warm and cheery, much like the outside, with bright lights, painted French furniture, and colourful walls. They serve the tea, coffee, and other hot beverages in real white china pots and saucers at round tables that mostly just seat two people and a small vase of local flowers. At the glass-fronted counter is an array of cream cakes and pastries, all with English, Danish, or French sounding names. There is a chalkboard behind the barista with the menu along with today's specials that haven't been changed in weeks. The varying vistas of Paris and the English countryside are hung to the walls in matching dark wooden frames. The customers return to their conversations as the door swings closed behind the new entrant and the cold breeze of an early spring morning is forgotten against the sunshine.
It's still pretty early in the day and the machines are yet to warm as hot as the midday sun, so Eli ponders this chance to rest a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place. He greets the woman behind the counter with a small smile. The small business owner has tired eyes and wild brown curls that are tied into a messy bun, yet there is that glimmer in her obsidian orbs; a giveaway of her good heart. She's one of those surviving sparks of hope; one of those people who hold onto who they really are despite their circumstances and experiences. She is probably in her mid thirties, but stress has painted dark circles under her eyes and penciled lines around her lips and brow. Eli asks for his croissant to be warmed beside his coffee, apologising amid his own tired smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “I'm just feeling like being a bit of a fusspot today."
He sees her spark glow a little brighter; her face is more relaxed and there is a smidge more joy in her eyes. “That's alright, dear, you be a fusspot.”
Eli laughs unexpectedly, and he knows that he's feeling that tiny bit better too. “Thanks for indulging my fusspot-ism. I needed that."
He takes his order and sits at one of the three tables that are basking in the sunlight coming through in heated beams from the front window. His coffee steams in its cup, rising in swirls of delicious aroma. It's too hot to wrap his hands around, so he loosely taps his fingers along the rim. He sits back into the chair so that he feels the nodules of the carved spindles press against his navy blazer and the mauve and white striped shirt beneath. He probably looks a little overdressed in his matching navy pants and brown loafers, but he has this youthful way of carrying himself - with his legs outstretched below the table to be crossed at the ankles and his long hair lazily combed back - that softens the formal edge of his two piece ensemble. Eli has the figure and fashion sense of a high-end model since he works the evenings at a local gym. Unfortunately, he wears clothes that are one or two sizes larger than he should and with his baby face, Eli is often assumed to be much younger than he actually is.
Somehow, this combination makes him incredibly approachable. It's only a few moments before the shadow of an elderly gentleman casts across his table and Eli hears and feels the rustle of a newspaper being thrust under his nose. He edges back as he looks up to greet the man. The first thing he notices - aside from this unusual practice of being handed a newspaper - is how bright, clean, and blue the man's eyes are. They are like two perfect circles of summer sky amidst white skin and whiskers that puff out like clouds. Startled and confused, Eli’s only response is to blink as his eyes flicker between the paper offering and the provider dressed all in plaid and corduroy.
"Well, take it then, the old man croaks. "I'm done with it now, so you can have it."
Before Eli can respond, he hears the voice of the barista reach over the room and pluck the old man’s ear like a schoolteacher chides an unruly student.
“Harvey. Let the boy be.”
“Argh,” he howls back and makes the effort to lean his head onto his shoulder to address her. “I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just being friendly. You like to read, don’t you?”
The more the man speaks, the more noticable his wheezing becomes and how easy it is to compare the sound of his voice to the crunch of pebbles underfoot. With his focus back on Eli, he’s forced to make a decision. He accepts the newspaper with a nod, a smile, and a quiet, almost inaudible, word of gratitude.
“You see, Jules.”
“Alright. Well thank you, Harvey. Now it’s time for you to catch your bus, isn’t it?” She moves out from behind the counter to fetch the man’s arm and guide him to the door of the cafe as slowly and as patiently as she can. “We don’t want you to be late for your appointment with doctor Greer.”
Harvey continues to mumble under his breath as he’s walked to the door and Eli finds himself absolutely captivated by the scene; watching even as the elderly man paces up the sidewalk. His entire body jerks and wobbles with each footfall, but his centre of gravity is so low and his determination so strong that it’s impossible to consider him capable of toppling over even as he leans a good forty-five degrees.
“I’m really sorry about the fuss,” Jules says as she returns to Eli’s side. “He’s just old and…”
“It’s really alright,” Eli interjects. “I’m more than happy to indulge some fusspot-ism too.”
This time, Jules is the one to laugh unexpectedly and casually tucks a string of curls behind her ear. Eli smiles and notices that as the sunlight hits her just right, it makes her skin glow like silken caramel.
“Thank you,” she says. “If you need anything, you just holler.”
Eli nods his head and they both get back to doing what they were before: being alone in a room full of people.