By mid afternoon, I was feeling a litle drowsy and needed my second dose of caffeine for the day. I work in the village and had the strong desire to sit and read in a proper cafe rather than sip a machiatto in Starbucks. I googled west village cafes and found one nearby, The Grey Dog. It wasn't difficult to find and I walked in. It was just what I wanted, a small dim cafe with brick walls, a large chalkboard menu above a counter bordered by a wooden picket fence. It had plants hanging above the front windows and Christmas lights glittered around. It was peppered with the sort of folk you probably wouldn't see in starbucks. I loved it. In my head, all it needed was a big red couch and a platinum blonde Barista named Gunther. I ordered a latte and a brownie and sat along the distressed wooden benches that lined the walls. I skimmed through their menu and found items like turkey sandwiches with apple slices and Brie and I knew I had to come back and try them sometime.On my way out, I grabbed a cigarette and tucked it behind my ear (a habit I picked up from a man I used to know) and hoped to find someone with a lighter as I seem to have misplaced mine. One of the servers was sweeping out in front and was smoking as he did so, so I asked him for a light. He began digging into his pockets and I pulled my cigarrette from behind my ear.
"Did you just pull that out of your hair?"
I smile. "No, I had it behind my ear."
"Oh, I was going to say that was so bad ass."
Yeah, that would have been.
Post a Comment