The smell of coffee beans lingers through the air, blocks away from a cozy, wood aesthetic themed hole in the wall. Soon the aroma fills your nostrils, wakes your brain and guides you toward the door.
On a Sunday night, the nook is quiet, mainly filled with hard working students and writers, consuming the most addictive drug in the world. The sound of the machines brewing and the employees filling orders at the counter surrounds you.
Street lights flicker and cars pass with the occasional horn being heard. Change hitting the tip jar makes you lose focus from time to time. Your work is consuming you and the clock keeps ticking.
As your coffee dwindles down to nothing, the shop starts to clear. Two or three people are left frantically writing down last minute notes. Fingers are typing a mile a minute as sounds of milk being poured floats near. Sugar cubes are dropped on the counter next to the pillows of white napkins towering over the holder.
The hour hand is moving toward nine o’clock and the employee starts shutting off the machines. The motors power down and it instantly becomes quiet. You are sitting across from another person, a woman, who is shuffling through pages of a book. The pages are old and stained, and you can hear the roughness of each turn hit against her fingertips.
You pick yourself up and head toward the door, chucking your empty coffee cup in the trash adjacent to the front door. The lights are dim, the window signs are off and the door locks behind you. The only thing that is running through your mind is the coffee that will keep you up all night.
