It’s Friday and time for my Guest Writer Spot, which gives writers the opportunity for their work to be seen and read by others. I accept stories, poems, articles – in fact, anything and everything. All you have to do is make sure your prose is no longer than 2000 words and your poems no more than 40 lines. If you would like some of your writing to be featured on my blog, please contact me here or by e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
This week, I’m pleased to welcome back the very talented Murray Clarke with an entertaining short story.
I was beginning to struggle under the weight of the plastic bags I was carrying. I needed to sit down for a few minutes, take the weight off my feet, and relax before continuing with my retail therapy. Then I remembered the recently-opened Italian coffee shop just around the corner. Worth a try.
“Good morning! What can I get you?” asked the young-looking, pig-tailed barista, forcing a smile. (Shouldn’t she be in school?)
“Just a coffee, please.” I smiled back sweetly.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she said.
“Yes, I can see that,” I replied frostily. I was feeling jaded. Just wanted to rest for a while and enjoy a nice cup of hot coffee.
The false smile vanished from the girl’s face. “What kind of coffee?” she asked bluntly. She glanced down at what I assumed was a list. “We got: espresso…macchiato…”
“Just a coffee,” I repeated. No smile this time.
“…americano…caffe latte…caffe ristretto…”
She hesitated and bit her bottom lip. “Not sure,” she said, before continuing. “Caffe doppio, caffe con schiuma…”
“Schiuma.” Her Italian pronunciation left a lot to be desired. “I – I think it’s foam.”
A queue was starting to form behind me.
I shuddered. “No thanks. What else can you tempt me with?”
“How about a caffe corretto or a caffe freddo…?”
“That’s cold isn’t it?”
“ It’s got ice in it,” she said. I shook my head.
“Caffe con panna…caffe mocha…”
“Coffee and chocolate! Urghh! What else?”
“Caffe lungo…affogato…caffe borghetti…”
“Never heard of that one.”
“Caffe Hag? You could always try our gran caffe speciale?” she suggested, hopefully.
The poor girl’s attempts at speaking the language really were pitiful. But at least she was trying, I suppose. Meanwhile, the queue behind me was getting longer and longer.
“Look, I tell you what,” I said. “I’ll just have a cup of TEA, please. Thank you.”