Couples wrapped tightly together with scarves scuttled hurriedly along Saint’s Street, braving the frosty weather. Every exhalation of theirs sent a white cloud into the winter air, which quickly dissipated. I was sat in a warm café, separated from the harsh weather by a glass window. Raindrops fell steadily on the damp street, sending concentric arcs racing along the worn asphalt. My coffee had a shot of whiskey in it, and every sip from the porcelain mug seemed to thaw me from the inside out. The brown liquid slid down my throat with alarming ease, almost like boiling honey, searing its way down my throat.
Setting the mug down, I signalled for a waiter. The middle-aged man that promptly arrived was dressed neatly in a suede grey suit, with a pretty little rose sitting atop his left breast, splashing colour on his otherwise uninspiring outfit. The left side of his head was completely shaven, and what was left of his hair was combed back over the bare skin. His hair was almost compulsively neat, glossy and textured, it made me ponder the extent of the effort he puts into his black grass. Tapping three fingers on the white oak table, I said a few words about my pleasant experience before paying the bill. Upon getting up on my feet, I straightened my blazer before striding towards the door, my platform shoes sending the paved floor into a creaking frenzy.
(READ WHILE LISTENING TO: BLUE BALLAD – PHIL WOODS)