Cafe - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In the cafe we sit, my friend and I, helping each other find ways to make our lives and loves better. We are each other's best doctor and medicine combined. The coffee, the music and the smile of someone who cares, it's a fragment of heaven, a chance to enjoy company and to start to want more.
The cafe is my refuge, this place I can make believe that I am in a caring society. At the tables are my imaginary friends in a transient community. We are born to need social bonds. We are born to need a sense of others, even if we are alone. It is terrible for the higher brain to know that we are solitary, that our life path has asked us to learn how to be the warrior instead of the cosseted, the protector and not the protected. Yet there is a need to fool the senses that this society is a safe place and we belong to a tribe. So in this cafe, among the noises of people, their scent, their occasional glances and the chatter of the baristas, I give my primitive brain a little of what it craves, just enough to see me though.
In the coffee shop we are as awkward lovers, pretending to be there of convenience, afraid of our need to connect to one another. This place filled with people always so close and so far apart... this is the community of our era... as close as we can be without admitting the truth.
It's early and the machines are yet to warm, so I ponder this chance to rest a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place. The barista has tired eyes, yet there is that glimmer, a give away of her good heart. She's one of those surviving sparks, one of the ones who held on to who they really are. I ask for my danish to be warmed, apologizing amid my own tired smile, "Sorry, I'm just feeling like being a bit of a fuss pot today."
I see her spark glow a little brighter, her face more relaxed, a smidge more joy in her eyes, "That's alright, dear, you be a fuss pot."
I laugh unexpectedly, and I know that I'm feeling that tiny bit better too, "Thanks for indulging my fuss-pot-ism. I needed that."
By day this cafe is the colour of supermarket oranges, it has that shiny look, and the jazz pours out of the open doors along with the aroma of fresh baked lasagne. But now that it's almost tomorrow and the light of the day has been replaced by the unrelenting blackness of night, the frontage is as grey as the smooth concrete sidewalk at my feet. I take in a deep breath, sucking in the air that carries a hint of dampness and lacks the heavy pollution of the day traffic. It could almost be another season in another place, but I'm not wishing to be elsewhere. I've already written it in my diary, 24th August 2014, "The day Jessie tells me he loves me as much as I love him..."
The tiny café huddled despondent among the huge city buildings. Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the drizzle. Hundreds of people rushed by it, outside on the crowded street. The half a dozen customers glanced up as the door swung open, heralded by a blast of cold wind. Unlike the outside, the interior of the café was warm and cheery, with bright lights and colourful walls. The customers returned to their conversations as the door swung closed behind the new entrant and the cold breeze was forgotten.
Viewed in isolation the patio could be anywhere with its grey stone floor and cafe tables, each with a green sun umbrella. If it were before an Italian vista I could sit for hours, days even, and simply be content. But instead it lies less than two feet from one of the busiest roads in the city. Were I to buy a coffee I wouldn't be enjoying its aroma, but instead the chocking fumes of the traffic that goes by almost without break. This isn't even a quaint city street, compared to my home country it's more of a highway, two lanes in either direction. Under the unbroken cloud this late morning could be the pre-dawn and the street is all the more grey for it. The headache I woke with is thickening like day old stew. The cafe itself looks inviting, on the other side of those doors is warmth and soft jazz, but I have no time to pamper myself today. No money either. The coins that rattle in my pocket are all accounted for: bus fair, lunch and candy from the office vending machine at eleven.
In the gloom of the cafe our knees almost touch under the narrow table. I want to whisper to Todd, tell him the bad news gently. He deserves that. But all about us other diners talk ever louder, competing with one another to be heard above their collective din. I have a whole conversation planned, a way to let Todd know I am leaving. He must know it's coming too, I see the hurt welling in his eyes behind that New Year smile. His usual steady gaze flickers from me to the muck on our table, no ours, it is left from the previous customers. I remove my elbows and sit a little straighter. From the corner of my eye I catch a young woman staring at us, her lank mousey hair falling in ribbons about her colour-drained t-shirt. In her hand is a small writing pad and a biro, she's the waitress. Todd orders for us, after all these years he knows exactly what I want before even I do. Perhaps that's why I have to go
Whenever I went out anywhere Denzel would ask me to describe where I'd been. Since the accident he couldn't even leave the house and he sort to live vicariously through me. So I told him all about the cafe, well, it was more of an English tea shop really. They served the tea in real white china pots at round tables that mostly just seated two people. At the glass-fronted counter was an array of cream cakes and pastries, all with English sounding names, and of course there were the obligatory scones. I had ordered a cream tea with Earl Grey and sat there waiting for Beatrice to arrive. She was fashionably late and then sat there filling my ears with news of her online-dating-fuelled-love-life. So I told Denzel all about that and he enjoyed pretending to be scandalized.
The cafe lies ahead, its royal blue paint glistening in the first golden rays of the day. I can see the rain drops that cling, jewel-like to to the name, "Gloria's." Outside the sidewalk that will bustle in a few short hours is quiet, the concrete oblivious to whether it is midday or midnight. My face smirks upward at the sight of the flower planter to the right, the city has put in new blooms that will give us flashes of sunny yellows and hot pinks through the springtime. If I stop walking right now I can almost hear the heartbeat of the city, quiet, like the ticking of an old Grandfather clock. Though I'm in no hurry I keep walking, the cafe isn't my destination, just a microcosm of happy memories with Ryan. No, it's the train station I'm headed for and a journey north...
I've been so lost in constructing scenarios for the evening ahead that Im surprised to see how far I've come. Already the cafe is in sight. There's nothing slick about it, no fancy fonts or white etching upon the glass. You could pick the whole thing up and send it back thirty years and it wouldn't look out of place. There aren't any tables with fancy umbrellas, just the uneven pavement baring the cracks of age. Despite the late hour I can still hear music from inside, the kind of rolling Jazz Louis always plays a little too loud for the neighbours liking. But I'm not here to sit at the bar and chat with him until the wee hours, I'm here to see David. He'll already be in there looking like he's been stood up, but he knew I'd be late, so he'll wait. Suddenly all my preparations flee my mind like scared children, my brain feels full of static like an old television set that's lost the signal. I stop. Part of me is screaming to turn around, but I know my future is in there...
They had a late breakfast at a cafe in Bayside Marketplace, right on the quayside with boats moored all around them and bright yellow-and-green water taxis nipping back and forth.
Found in Alex Rider, Skeleton Key, authored by .
Deli cafe, next to South London train station, busy commuters in and out, office workers, taxi drivers. Shiny silver IKEA tables and chairs, Monet prints framed on the walls, light jazz music, cream cheese smoked salmon bagels, coronation chicken baguettes, faux chic atmosphere, servers in smart matching garb, fancy coffee, latte, expresso, hot chocolate, small kitchen for sandwich preparation, ovens for finishing part baked bread, false smiles, wiping down surfaces, sterilizing refrigerator seals, wrapping and sealing baguettes in plastic, sticking labels on food.
Square tables, glass tops, menu under glass tops, slow turning ceiling fans above, light classical music, waiters smartly dressed in black and white, terracotta rustic tiled floor, large windows, small vases of yellow carnation flowers on each table, daily specials on a chalk board at entrance.
Greasy spoon cafe, run down South London street, near train brick built train overpass, two doors down from fabulous Indian restaurant, near the Rastafarian's car garage, opposite mid rise low cost flats. Mugs of tea, chips with sausages, burgers, buttered slices, fried eggs, large portions, small rickety tables, plastic tablecloths, small glass salt and pepper shakers with tinny lids, tomato ketchup in red plastic squeeze bottles, small galley kitchen with fryers, hob and a sink. Servers in odd assortment of casual garb, grease smeared aprons, coarse language, slang, tabloid newspapers.