Cafe

Mr Brown

Brown suede shoes, the type with the little flappy bits and holes in the sides to let your feet breathe. Above them the matching brown pin-stripe suit trousers hang just above the ankle – the type that expose the washed-out white socks underneath. The suit jacket, just as ill-fitting as the trousers, shows a strap – worn out by time on the man’s left wrist as he pays his £2.65 and retreats to the corner with the Metro. There he sits with his right leg crossed over his left, squinting through his round, silver framed glasses at the news. Sitting there, Mr Brown waits until he thinks no-one is watching, and reaches into his inside right pocket and pulls out a clear little bag and empties the content into his drink…

Builder’s Brew

Off comes the hard-hat to reveal the fat balding scalp. The once bright yellow jacket caked in dirt. Little glimpses of light still reflect from the grey stripes on his chest as he swaggers in, chewing gum with his unkept, hairy jaw. He wipes his grimy hands on his equally filthy trousers with the tear just above the left knee. Crashing his steel toe capped size twelve’s towards the counter he jokes with John and Pete about the page three girl before turning to the counter. His voice booms through the shop as he orders his: ‘tall mocha frappuccini please.’

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