A stool by the window, a double-decker bus parked right outside.
Raindrops bounce off a tiled sidewalk.
Pedestrians pass by in rain jackets, hoodies, some with umbrellas, and a few with baseball caps.
An Irish gift store and a casino across the street, both open at this early hour, but the casino is receiving more customers.
Jazz music over the sound system, polite male baristas, one with a beard and short hair, the other with silver-cross earrings and long hair.
Cozy divans and antique chairs, brick walls separating the caffè from its neighbours.
Twelve of the thirteen seated customers are staring at their phones.
The thirteenth, a woman with a Stockholm sweatshirt and green fingernails smiles at something she’s reading in her book, finishes her coffee, pops a piece of gum in her mouth, carefully marks her page with a bookmark, and packs up to leave.
A man in blue jeans, a sports jacket, and sneakers paces the hardwood floor, agitated from a conversation he’s having on his phone.
On the wall, a green-framed photo of bicycles leaning against an alley wall.
Overpriced shortbread is a novelty and eases my morning hunger after a long flight.
A double macchiato helps overcome the jet lag.
