Late For Work
I had really just wanted an average- sized mug of coffee. The barista snarled at me patronisingly and folded his arms, his contradictory stance said both 'I've all the time in the world to wait for you to do this correctly', whilst also saying 'hurry the fuck up.' I'd committed a faux pas in this run- down coffee shop in a dodgy end of Brixton, I hadn't ordered my coffee in Italian and in doing so had perhaps not only offended this barista but the entire business, or art perhaps, that is coffee preparation. Apologetically I stuttered and stumbled with my words, accidentally ordering an 'ulti-grande' americano. None of that seemed the slightest bit authentically Italian to me but it was clear I had offended enough already and ultimately just needed that morning caffeine rush. I grabbed a serviette and one brown sugar. As I stepped onto the pavement I was met with the overwhelming smell of freshly cut grass, I was filled with an odd sense of euphoria and hoped my colleagues would greet me with smiles this morning. Checking my watch I realised I was running slightly late so picked up my pace, thinking in the back of my mind that perhaps today's the day I'll ask Sarah out on that second date. I step forward at the edge of the pavement, my eyes oddly engrossed on an advertisement board ahead.
Our protagonist trips in his distraction, blinded by the emerging sun. He falls and feels the wheels of the number 14 bus, his final thoughts of that euphoric sense of hope that freshly cut grass induces, banishing regret far away.
