I worship at the altar of my local coffee shop. On weekdays, I steal ten minutes between exercise and starting work to visit this sanctuary. The smell of Seven Seeds fills the air, as the clunking noise of beans being ground for a morning pick-me-up, ring in my ears. There’s an easy sort of lightness when I enter the space. Smiling and waving to the other regulars, eyes meet in contentment. People, whose names I will unlikely learn, share a moment of respite from a too-busy world.
I don’t have to order and that comes with a smug sense of belonging. They know me here. They can sense the kind of salvation I need on any given day. My favourite barista enquires as to how the writing is travelling. I shake my head and confess that it’s not progressing the way it should. He nods in the direction of his cabinet filled with delicious sugar-topped, baked goods and today, my calling comes in the form of an almond croissant.
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