The coffee here is sweet even when you drink it black. It brings her back to me; this whole place just feels like a warm hug from her.
Right now it's raining on the brick sidewalks, making tiny streams down the street. The cherry blossomed tree outside is dropping delicate pink tears in response to this downpour. Debussy plays softly on the radio and I absentmindedly wish that it was warmer in here.
People shuffle in and out; most with raincoats hastily pulled on. I watch as the boy with the big hands and small glasses makes his drenched customer's coffee.
A little boy has darted in and sits across from me now, where are his parents? He eats his cake like rabid beast as he makes a phone call that ends with a garbled, "I love you."
Everyone outside huddles under umbrellas; one especially adorable old couple share one small umbrella.
More and more people rush in to converge upon the expectant warmth of a small town coffee shop. More and more water streaks across the wood floors.
The rain outside slows and the sodden streets glow in the gloomy, gray light. And somehow I still can't help but wish that she was across the table from me.
