Early mornings, watching the city wake up with the sun outside and the busying street. Hot, black coffee. Regulars, like Art, who always gets a glass mug, a palmier, a refill, and tips at the end.
Chatting with the bakers, filling orders, grinding beans. Coffee dust everywhere, perfuming my hair and clothes for hours afterwards.
The hiss and purr of steaming milks, delicate dripping filling huge pots of coffee, and light crunch of flaky pastries. Clinking plates and silverware.
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It is not my dream job, not my life’s work, but it is a satisfying way to pass the time.