In the small café, they were serving hot chocolates to any homeless person who stumbled in for warmth. The blizzard had not let up for eight days now, and no cars budged from their snowy nests, and no lights emitted ever gave enough heat to thaw out fingers and loosen water from in between lips and in between eyelids. One matted woman in particular asked for espresso in the cocoa, and they gave it. Never before had they seen sparklers in a winter lady’s eyes.
She sat across from him in the overpriced cafe and thought about saying “I love you.” Immediately, she kicked herself for thinking it. Maybe because she thought he was some kind of psychic, mostly because she was worried about being cliche. She wanted this to happen in its own way, a way she couldn’t imagine, not in the way it might happen in a romance novel they sell at Safeway.
I was sitting in the Butthole Cafe one evening listening to the sounds of my coworkers chittering about pointless bullshit, when the door banged open loudly. In stalked the Giant Shit, cloaked in darkness and wearing a toupee.
I sit in a cafe. Totally free. It’s 5, or 3 pm. And it’s snowing out. I’m having a macchiatto or a cappucino for once, instead of my usual black with a guilt-ridden splash of half and half. Cafes are for my new romance that I am open to and not hostile toward. My cappucino is drunk slowly. I am free in this cafe. At 4:12 pm.
She sat alone at the café, lamenting the loss of her dear friend. They used to drink coffee, and say silly things. She joked with herself now. She drank her vanilla coffee, and stared out the window, into the souls of passers-by.
I don’t know what this word really means. A place to drink coffee or a place for hipsters to interact. I don’t dislike hipsters. They seem ok. The real hipsters not the wannabe hipsters. Which I guess would be all of them.
Café. People go and drink coffee and teas at cafés. I would honestly love to visit one someday, with someone. Maybe like a date. It would be nice, yeah. In actuality, however, it’s the person’s company that I would like best. Not the café. But the person. So I guess I’ll be looking for someone to go to a café with.
I think of good music, a peaceful environment. Windows and open feeling space. I can smell coffee and there are flowers hanging in baskets. Prime spot to people watch.
She stepped into the cafe, arms bleeding and clothes torn. She slid into a booth, clearly not wanting any attention, but one of the waiters, currently pouring coffee for a wrinkled, gray man, immediately dropped what he was doing and hurried over to her. All other turned a blind eye, not wanting to meddle in a reckless girls mistakes, but he sat with her the whole night, mending her wounds and saving her mind from destruction.
The cafe smelled of fresh coffee. of course I wasn’t here for a beverage. i was here to meet him, my other half. he was my partner in crime, my lover, my hater. he was everything to me. but that was going to end soon.
What a quaint little cafe, Marianne thought as she walked past. She didn’t know it, but it was only a money-laundering front for the Mafia. Soon she would find that out, though she didn’t know that either.
it was a small cafe, interestingly placed between a church and a meat market, and teeming with people who could have been in either of those establishments – or should have been…
We drove for miles to get here. And now I’m sitting here, trying to choose what to pick. The sunlight is filtering through the windows, the crisp breeze is flowing through, and everything is perfect. Too perfect – I’m going to have to order the whole menu, I suppose.
It was midday. Four minutes after three. Antonio said he’d be here at three. Maybe I’m being obsessive, but maybe I’m not. I really just believe someone as wonderful as him is unreal or at least unreal to be with a wreck like moi. Moi à le café.
It’s like the modern form of tea leaf reading. You order your fairly overpriced, and definitely overnamed, coffee based confection. The Barista gives you a mug with a strange contrast between the dark liquid and the white cream, and for a second, you think you can see something important in the vagaries of the cream.
I sat in the lonely cafe, waiting for something to catch my eye. I knew that there was something special here. I knew I was looking for something, I just had no idea of what.
Kush, Italy, Zippy’s in Nelson, Diss upstairs above the deli – so many lunches there, the wonderful cafe in Zurich where they made the best lemon cheesecake served on a plate painted with palladium columns in a dark berry sauce…..
Eating in a café is likely a sign that you’re short on cash or don’t want to eat alone. The local café is a place of community and the prices ensure a good crowd. The food consists of the typical hometown café offerings, along with local fare considered a cultural representation, and then there’s the sample or two of the latest popular dish. Currently, that includes sweet potato fries and quesadillas right along with menu items like wild rice and lefse. The community is fairly diverse with the two largest populations being Ojibwe tribal members and Scandinavian. The rest of the ethnic groups came later and continue to migrate into this north country community looking for a lifestyle that has been long gone from most of the state, eaten up by the contemporary homogeneity of franchises and the cyberspace world growing to maintain more sameness. This small town is actually the hub of a great woodland area, a latter day frontier of sorts.
I always think coffee shop, but that’s not entirely true is it? Cafe’s can be more than just a Starbucks. There used to be a nice little lunch cafe across from the 7/11 named “a good little cafe”. It was lovely, but it didn’t get enough business to stay open, and not its gone. Sad to see it go.
I was in france. I wasn’t sure where, but I could tell by the name of the cafe I was standing in that I was somewhere in downtown Paris. Not sure how to handle the situation, I checked my pockets for a cellphone of sorts, a way to gather my surroundings, maybe make a call.
I’m tired of staring out
the window from
an empty
café,
it’s worse than
being trapped
underneath my own
skin,
because at least the
people outside
are
happy.
latte, decaf, extra foam with caramel. cafe are made for people without willpower, in here you have made 6 decisions and havent even made an effort. you walkin like martin mcshy and come out shootin like an spaghetti western.
She walked up the block, eyeing the overhang of the cafe. She fiddled with her hands nervously not knowing why this urgent meeting was called upon her. She saw her boss sitting nonchalantly sipping coffee, scrolling on his phone, and looking up. The closer she got the fear beaded more in her, and it shook her on the inside.
It was a nice enough place, one of those street side cafés, you know the type: a few hardy metal tables with matching chairs, a seasonal window display, and coffee that costs just a little bit more than the average Starbucks. The locals call it Café Mocha and, being one of them, I’m not if I can even tell you it’s real name. All I know is that the second I spot that royal blue awning, I feel like I’ve come home.
I’ve been going there since I came to L.A., nearly eight years ago now, which is more than enough time to fall in love with their original blends, their ambrosial fare, it’s owners, the Harrisons, and, above all else, their daughter, Caroline.
There is something magical about sitting in the little cafe down the road from my job. Time seems to stand still there. No WiFi, no computers, no TVs hovering in the corners with words ticking by of atrocities and horrors from the chaos in the outside world; instead, there is peace. Quiet. Calm. Heads dipped in books of poetry and romance. One jotting thoughts in a journal, another sketches on a snow white pad of paper with pastel-colored pencils laying in wait to fill in lined spaces. Music softly whispers, enchanting the sippers with the perfect background to close one’s eyes in simple contentment.
A place where you sit alone with your thoughts,sipping your cofee. Peaceful is how you are described, sitting in your favourite corner holding a book in one hand and your cofee in the other. The book is held tightly but it’s long forgotten as you gaze into the bustling street with a faraway look on your face.
I imagine a tiny cafe in a remote area. I am with a boy. We are happy. We are enjoying a meal. People around us are in good moods. We all get along. We are at peace. Everything is set in place. The waitor is nice. He serves us fun cheeses and bread. We drink wine. We laugh. A lot! Laughter is the key. We smile to everyone. Everyone is welcome in this afe.
“But on a wednesday, in a cafe, I watched it begin again.” Those lyrics by my idol are amazing. Her lyrics haunt me everyday, they make me vulnerable and strong at the same time. I love music, I love how I can simply escape from the pain of the world as I discover a beautiful place of love, hope and serenity.
He walked into the dark smoke filled cafe’ and as his eyes adjusted he saw her sitting on a chaise lounge in the corner by the only open window in the house.
The cafe was simple; quaint even, and yet, there was an atmosphere about it that made one cautious to enter it carelessly. The vibe it carried was nothing short of terror, and the plain decorations almost looked sinister.
i would love to be sitting down, reading my book on a breezy warm day with the sun on my pages. sipping a cup of iced tea and nibbing- like i always do- on a biscuit.
I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow and all were about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if I was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and I went on to share with her how I am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe I’m crazy.” and left it at that. Now I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face), the infantile, the breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.
If I ever happened to see him across the room, and I don’t know how I’d know, that’s not the fucking point, the point is that if I saw him, it’d be a sign, and I would walk over with my strong mind and bones weaker than my logic, and so help me god, I would punch him to death in that sweet little corner cafe until it smelled like coffee, sweat, and the justice of sweet surrender. For you.
We sat sipping slow drinks with hot curls of steam rising from our mugs. There were things you wouldn’t say. There were words behind my mouth. We sat there as if we were conversing, as if the coffee could bring us closer. We sat there, staring at each other, waiting to muster the courage to be candid. We sat there as if we loved one another still. We sat there as if it meant something.
The cafe was quieter than usual today. Normally, it’s loaded with familiar people buying drinks or reading books or doing things that typically quiet people do. Not today. Today, I was the only one sitting down at the tables with my coffee next to my laptop. I was alone, and I was content, until a new face walked in and sat down at the booth across from me…
In the small café, they were serving hot chocolates to any homeless person who stumbled in for warmth. The blizzard had not let up for eight days now, and no cars budged from their snowy nests, and no lights emitted ever gave enough heat to thaw out fingers and loosen water from in between lips and in between eyelids. One matted woman in particular asked for espresso in the cocoa, and they gave it. Never before had they seen sparklers in a winter lady’s eyes.
She sat across from him in the overpriced cafe and thought about saying “I love you.” Immediately, she kicked herself for thinking it. Maybe because she thought he was some kind of psychic, mostly because she was worried about being cliche. She wanted this to happen in its own way, a way she couldn’t imagine, not in the way it might happen in a romance novel they sell at Safeway.
warm heat pools in head and hits me like a drug. cool, white death air melts as I enter the haven. smell of coffee wakes me as I start
I was sitting in the Butthole Cafe one evening listening to the sounds of my coworkers chittering about pointless bullshit, when the door banged open loudly. In stalked the Giant Shit, cloaked in darkness and wearing a toupee.
I sit in a cafe. Totally free. It’s 5, or 3 pm. And it’s snowing out. I’m having a macchiatto or a cappucino for once, instead of my usual black with a guilt-ridden splash of half and half. Cafes are for my new romance that I am open to and not hostile toward. My cappucino is drunk slowly. I am free in this cafe. At 4:12 pm.
She sat alone at the café, lamenting the loss of her dear friend. They used to drink coffee, and say silly things. She joked with herself now. She drank her vanilla coffee, and stared out the window, into the souls of passers-by.
I don’t know what this word really means. A place to drink coffee or a place for hipsters to interact. I don’t dislike hipsters. They seem ok. The real hipsters not the wannabe hipsters. Which I guess would be all of them.
Café. People go and drink coffee and teas at cafés. I would honestly love to visit one someday, with someone. Maybe like a date. It would be nice, yeah. In actuality, however, it’s the person’s company that I would like best. Not the café. But the person. So I guess I’ll be looking for someone to go to a café with.
I’m at the sad cafe of life,and this food is slowing killing me.I’ll have a second helping ,please.
I think of good music, a peaceful environment. Windows and open feeling space. I can smell coffee and there are flowers hanging in baskets. Prime spot to people watch.
She stepped into the cafe, arms bleeding and clothes torn. She slid into a booth, clearly not wanting any attention, but one of the waiters, currently pouring coffee for a wrinkled, gray man, immediately dropped what he was doing and hurried over to her. All other turned a blind eye, not wanting to meddle in a reckless girls mistakes, but he sat with her the whole night, mending her wounds and saving her mind from destruction.
The cafe smelled of fresh coffee. of course I wasn’t here for a beverage. i was here to meet him, my other half. he was my partner in crime, my lover, my hater. he was everything to me. but that was going to end soon.
What a quaint little cafe, Marianne thought as she walked past. She didn’t know it, but it was only a money-laundering front for the Mafia. Soon she would find that out, though she didn’t know that either.
it was a small cafe, interestingly placed between a church and a meat market, and teeming with people who could have been in either of those establishments – or should have been…
We drove for miles to get here. And now I’m sitting here, trying to choose what to pick. The sunlight is filtering through the windows, the crisp breeze is flowing through, and everything is perfect. Too perfect – I’m going to have to order the whole menu, I suppose.
It was midday. Four minutes after three. Antonio said he’d be here at three. Maybe I’m being obsessive, but maybe I’m not. I really just believe someone as wonderful as him is unreal or at least unreal to be with a wreck like moi. Moi à le café.
It’s like the modern form of tea leaf reading. You order your fairly overpriced, and definitely overnamed, coffee based confection. The Barista gives you a mug with a strange contrast between the dark liquid and the white cream, and for a second, you think you can see something important in the vagaries of the cream.
I sat in the lonely cafe, waiting for something to catch my eye. I knew that there was something special here. I knew I was looking for something, I just had no idea of what.
Kush, Italy, Zippy’s in Nelson, Diss upstairs above the deli – so many lunches there, the wonderful cafe in Zurich where they made the best lemon cheesecake served on a plate painted with palladium columns in a dark berry sauce…..
Eating in a café is likely a sign that you’re short on cash or don’t want to eat alone. The local café is a place of community and the prices ensure a good crowd. The food consists of the typical hometown café offerings, along with local fare considered a cultural representation, and then there’s the sample or two of the latest popular dish. Currently, that includes sweet potato fries and quesadillas right along with menu items like wild rice and lefse. The community is fairly diverse with the two largest populations being Ojibwe tribal members and Scandinavian. The rest of the ethnic groups came later and continue to migrate into this north country community looking for a lifestyle that has been long gone from most of the state, eaten up by the contemporary homogeneity of franchises and the cyberspace world growing to maintain more sameness. This small town is actually the hub of a great woodland area, a latter day frontier of sorts.
I always think coffee shop, but that’s not entirely true is it? Cafe’s can be more than just a Starbucks. There used to be a nice little lunch cafe across from the 7/11 named “a good little cafe”. It was lovely, but it didn’t get enough business to stay open, and not its gone. Sad to see it go.
Je boit le café au lait avant de mon class
I was in france. I wasn’t sure where, but I could tell by the name of the cafe I was standing in that I was somewhere in downtown Paris. Not sure how to handle the situation, I checked my pockets for a cellphone of sorts, a way to gather my surroundings, maybe make a call.
I’m tired of staring out
the window from
an empty
café,
it’s worse than
being trapped
underneath my own
skin,
because at least the
people outside
are
happy.
-a.d.r.
I sit at the cafe, wondering how my girlfriend will take to order her coffee. I am anxious to make love to her!
latte, decaf, extra foam with caramel. cafe are made for people without willpower, in here you have made 6 decisions and havent even made an effort. you walkin like martin mcshy and come out shootin like an spaghetti western.
She walked up the block, eyeing the overhang of the cafe. She fiddled with her hands nervously not knowing why this urgent meeting was called upon her. She saw her boss sitting nonchalantly sipping coffee, scrolling on his phone, and looking up. The closer she got the fear beaded more in her, and it shook her on the inside.
It was a nice enough place, one of those street side cafés, you know the type: a few hardy metal tables with matching chairs, a seasonal window display, and coffee that costs just a little bit more than the average Starbucks. The locals call it Café Mocha and, being one of them, I’m not if I can even tell you it’s real name. All I know is that the second I spot that royal blue awning, I feel like I’ve come home.
I’ve been going there since I came to L.A., nearly eight years ago now, which is more than enough time to fall in love with their original blends, their ambrosial fare, it’s owners, the Harrisons, and, above all else, their daughter, Caroline.
There is something magical about sitting in the little cafe down the road from my job. Time seems to stand still there. No WiFi, no computers, no TVs hovering in the corners with words ticking by of atrocities and horrors from the chaos in the outside world; instead, there is peace. Quiet. Calm. Heads dipped in books of poetry and romance. One jotting thoughts in a journal, another sketches on a snow white pad of paper with pastel-colored pencils laying in wait to fill in lined spaces. Music softly whispers, enchanting the sippers with the perfect background to close one’s eyes in simple contentment.
A place where you sit alone with your thoughts,sipping your cofee. Peaceful is how you are described, sitting in your favourite corner holding a book in one hand and your cofee in the other. The book is held tightly but it’s long forgotten as you gaze into the bustling street with a faraway look on your face.
I imagine a tiny cafe in a remote area. I am with a boy. We are happy. We are enjoying a meal. People around us are in good moods. We all get along. We are at peace. Everything is set in place. The waitor is nice. He serves us fun cheeses and bread. We drink wine. We laugh. A lot! Laughter is the key. We smile to everyone. Everyone is welcome in this afe.
“But on a wednesday, in a cafe, I watched it begin again.” Those lyrics by my idol are amazing. Her lyrics haunt me everyday, they make me vulnerable and strong at the same time. I love music, I love how I can simply escape from the pain of the world as I discover a beautiful place of love, hope and serenity.
He walked into the dark smoke filled cafe’ and as his eyes adjusted he saw her sitting on a chaise lounge in the corner by the only open window in the house.
Eavesdropping
on the couple at the next table
she burned her lips on the black
arabica, spilled
and stained her skirt
The cafe was simple; quaint even, and yet, there was an atmosphere about it that made one cautious to enter it carelessly. The vibe it carried was nothing short of terror, and the plain decorations almost looked sinister.
i would love to be sitting down, reading my book on a breezy warm day with the sun on my pages. sipping a cup of iced tea and nibbing- like i always do- on a biscuit.
I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow and all were about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if I was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and I went on to share with her how I am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe I’m crazy.” and left it at that. Now I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face), the infantile, the breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.
If I ever happened to see him across the room, and I don’t know how I’d know, that’s not the fucking point, the point is that if I saw him, it’d be a sign, and I would walk over with my strong mind and bones weaker than my logic, and so help me god, I would punch him to death in that sweet little corner cafe until it smelled like coffee, sweat, and the justice of sweet surrender. For you.
We sat sipping slow drinks with hot curls of steam rising from our mugs. There were things you wouldn’t say. There were words behind my mouth. We sat there as if we were conversing, as if the coffee could bring us closer. We sat there, staring at each other, waiting to muster the courage to be candid. We sat there as if we loved one another still. We sat there as if it meant something.
The cafe was quieter than usual today. Normally, it’s loaded with familiar people buying drinks or reading books or doing things that typically quiet people do. Not today. Today, I was the only one sitting down at the tables with my coffee next to my laptop. I was alone, and I was content, until a new face walked in and sat down at the booth across from me…