The loose end of a tarp covering a pane of new glass from a construction project across the avenue is snapping in a strong wind. The reflected morning sunlight is strobing, hitting the caramel coloured wall just above my left shoulder.
Three tradesmen are carrying on with the hostess who is busy behind the espresso machine. She’s charming, sorcerous even, and has their number.
A girl with hair the colour of toffee is in the corner staring into a Dell laptop. She’s researching a sociology essay. It will be her best writing yet.
Just above the girl’s head on a square of azure fibreboard, in copperplate gothic, is written: "Nicely done," the Siren thought, and magically instilled in her coffee the ability to recreate itself from its own spent grounds.
It’s the birth of the refill. That’s my kind of magic.
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