Kick Of Caffeine

Washed out under the murky sky the cafe curled ball-like, hunched in on itself to fight against the cold city drizzle. Hundreds rushed in, out, past and by it each day. Scurrying, flustered city dwellers caught the swift whiff of coffee that escaped the humble storefront.

Contrary to the outside gloom, the interior of the cafe was lively, adorned with fluorescently inked wallpaper and artsy brown drapes. Cocooned within, the half a dozen customers that littered the shop glanced towards the door each time it swung open. Swiftly startled by the accompanying blast of cold wind, each heralded a brisk proclamation of disgust. As the door nestled safely back into its frame, the customers returned to their conversations as the latest entrant, along with the cold breeze, was soon forgotten.

I observed the blank smile of the cashier. She was as warm as hour old coffee, and just as lifeless. She betrayed the pure aesthetics of the place, and without milk or sugar, she was beyond unpleasant. Despite this, a line formed at the till and persisted until the coffee beans ran out. Even then some lingered in the hopes of more. We are a soulless generation, unperturbed by the world.

Customers wrap their hands greedily around their mug, enjoying the heat that spread through their fingertips like wildfire. Their lips suck at luxury, their faces melting, savouring both the drink and the moment. They bathe in the kick of caffeine. Bitterly stale, each brew tasted terrible. It was my best coffee yet. The coffee urges me to drift far away, to a forbidden sanction. I was transported to the villainous domain of addiction.


The bland mug I now held told a thousand stories and I am ever so patient and counselling in my part as a listener. I pull the essence of each story out, one sip at a time, one word at a time. The coffee transports me to its earliest days.

The economic swell of society becomes an incentive for struggling families to withdraw their children from school, capitalising on this earthy gem. In slavery, their bodies are caged, separating them from a spirit they cannot touch. Submissive, their hate burns within. Now an empty shell, pretending to be human, they are pushed into the furnace that fuels my all encompassing want, my all empowering need … for coffee.

I disconnect from this thought - preferring the power of a raised whip. Their blood may lay tainted in the soil but I own their souls with the nickels and dimes I squander on each deliciously warm cup. Their skin, broken so many times by the whip I yield, is a gnarled map of their soundless struggle.

Blinking, I inhale the beautifully bitter fumes that are indiscernible from the heavy pollution of the day traffic. The bright hum of the cafe brings me to my senses. I get up, leaving my half-touched coffee. The cafe is filled with barren winter air as the heartbeat of the city embraces me.

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