If you listen closely, you can hear the quiet pitter-patter on keys, fingers typing rapidly, words to a page. What is being written varies from person to person. Is it the bearded man in the corner? What could he be writing? It could be truth or wisdom, found in the grey hairs of his beard. Flecks scattered about, many from years and years.

What could she be writing? The girl gently swaying to the music, eyes eagerly on the screen; Fingers drumming in rhythm. What could the nervous man be writing? The one kept to himself, words reflecting in his glasses, rimming his eyes.  A smile quickly forms on his face, when she shows him his place. A woman, a writer like himself, guiding him to the group.

Of course, there are more curious characters in this Coffee shop on a winter day.  Like the man whistling the jazz song echoing through the shop. Making the warm beverages left and right. From his hat, to his beard, to his apron adorned in pins. All like memories pinned on his chest, from places he’s been, to people he’s met.

Coffee fills the room, in aromas so rich and velvety. Espresso and cinnamon, to the faint scent of tea. Steam rises from cups, full of wonderous designs; of what resembles a writing quill, made of foamy delight.

Light is starting to dim, as the window’s no longer share the sunshine from outside. Even noise begins to disappear, in the little coffee shop. Yet you can still hear the pitter-patter on the keys.

You can still hear a writer do what they do best,

They write.