Closing Doors by Heather Richardson
The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.
Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her – space to breathe and take in her surroundings. The café was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.
She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.
Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.
The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.
Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her – space to breathe and take in her surroundings. The café was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.
She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.
Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.
1 comment:
Interesting start Heather, very evocative. You really draw the reader into the scene, I can smell the cafe, squint through the greasy windows, recoil, a little, at the old man. I'm intreagued by the envelope...
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