what's brewing?

they were talking about planning her wedding dinner - the bride, and the organizer. "I want the food to tell a story", she said, and I overheard. I immediately wondered if I would have the time to pen out the nuances of my special day, like this bride, at 10AM on a weekday. 

the cafe was Monmouth Coffee Company, and the nearest Underground station was London Bridge. It was the internet that recommended this place, but it was the white scribble on a black canvas that drew me in. Filter Coffee. 

the beans were from Peru that day, and the voices from across the world. 

there was a wooden table in the middle, one that could house ten of us -- four each on either of the longer sides, and a piece each on the shorter ones. I got a seat in a moment's notice the first couple of times I was there, but the third time around I was made to stand -- in the first concentric circle around the table, my coffee placed neatly on the arm-rest. 

there was this calm I felt, as I tried to read a few lines of Vuong, or write a few lines in C, while people around me conversed -- right from the entrance that opened into the Borough Market, to the people in the outer circle, behind me, by the windows. It was different though, as my eyes caught the sound, and my ears simply smiled.

someone got up, on that third day, and I made my move. I tucked my bag under the table, as I had been directed the first time, almost a week ago. There was a hook under that wooden exterior, to let me, and the fellow vagabonds, hang their belongings safely-- locked and hidden, like my worries in that abode. I closed the book, and shut the laptop lid, as I was getting ready to bid adieu to this place, for the time being at-least..

but just then my eyes caught the sound, and my ears smiled. I took the book out again, for some more time before I return to pen out my special day, at 10AM, on a weekday..

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