Spices are sucked into my mouth. A thin watery mix that swirls from the roof of my palette to the back of my throat. An burst of cinnamon and vanilla and nutmeg and pepper that sets every sense on fire.

And then I swallow, and all that I have left is an aftertaste, a memory, a sweet experience that will linger, then fade.I set my mug down, and lean back into the tanned pine chair. Remarkably comfortable, even without cushions. My senses are still exploding from the scent that inhabits this place, the heaviness of caffeine that masks everything else. Perfume, sweat, waxed curls of a brunette; lemon fresh dish detergent and chewing gum fresh breath are all floating aimlessly beneath the crush of caffeine. My eyes wander to the varnished table top, upon which letters of different fonts spiral to the centre. Muddy orange and diarrhoea brown spell out phrases that on impulse become compulsive reading. …too many choices…a sunny Costa Rica…I answer quickly…thank you and (the rest is obscured by my cup of Chai)…they look confused… I guess I’d be confused if I had to print these words upon the furniture in an attempt at decoration. Is this avant-garde or Chintz…I have to wonder? It’s made an impression, but five seconds later, I’m bored of it and my attention turns to the window. Two guys crouch by the entrance to MacDonald’s. At first, there was only one: dark blue bomber jacket and matching cap. I thought he was homeless. Then a friend (I assume) walked out of Maccy Dee’s and squatted beside him, holding a plastic bag on which words were printed but I couldn’t read. They talked for a while, an animated conversation that meant nothing to me, I could only guess its meaning. My imagination is slow today – the repetition, the relentlessness of the city does nothing so trigger the explosion like the spiced tea that I’m drinking. A man wheels a MacDonald’s cart along the pavement. The woman in the maroon skirt wanders out of the Japanese store and down the street, out of my window of sight. A guy pops a piece of gum into his mouth. The waiter sings the same two lines of a song again. Utterly devoid of any inspiration, I turn back to the tabletop, my silent companion.…a moody Ethiopian Harrar… What the hell is a Harrar? I stand up and go get another cup of Chai.

By DebonyRain

I'm a dreamer...a drop of ebony in the rain...guess that's the best description, what with my cherry cigarettes and earl grey tea. I write a lot, try to inspire myself to take more pictures, play dark and bloody and odd computer games when my body's telli