The smell of it. The way the tiny grains stick to my skin, wash after wash after minute after minute of slaving away.

The smell. The steam.

The perfect foam, the perfect drip, the perfect tamper.

‘Like a drug’ – some would say.

The smell of it.

A hustling cafe; many hustling cafes. It could be any of them really. Another cup, another day. Minute after minute, day after day.

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