Tales from the coffee shop - The Man
The seasoned man. Situated in the same spot. Extremely comfortable within his own self, he sits as though he owns the particularly chair, the domain he constantly inhabits.
Always in that same seat - is where you will see The Man. Broadsheet newspaper or a laptop are without fail usually close by.
Tapping away at the plastic devise, or musing away with a wry smile etched on his spectacle adorned face. The look that denotes that he is the only person privy to the joke or many anecdotes that swirl around in his presumably intellectual mind.
Legs crossed in that apt gentlemanly fashion. A relaxed disposition he exudes.
Questionable dress sense he displays. Socks with sandals, dressing like the slightly rebellious quirky cousin of a geography teacher - but that is just him.
He wouldn't suit conformity. Perhaps he was a punk or anarchist in his youth.
One wonders if he just loves the venue, what he does, who he is.
Maybe he owns the place, and enjoys nothing more to spend time sat reflecting, soaking up its easy atmosphere.
He could be a writer, a man that frequents the literary world. A man that takes delight in the arts. A man that has seen the world and types of out his myriads of adventures.
His name? It is a mystery, unless somebody takes the time to go and ask him.
Would his intriguing nature crumble if he were to be approached and it transpired that he was merely an ordinary bloke who was doing a spot of on-line supermarket shopping or using his broadsheet newspaper to disguise the fact that he was actually looking at a mucky magazine. A possible explanation for that wry smile.
The coffee shop continues to cater for various individuals as they come and go.
As always he appears to be permanent fixture.
He remains nameless.
Submitted by Demola, The Collective
Always in that same seat - is where you will see The Man. Broadsheet newspaper or a laptop are without fail usually close by.
Tapping away at the plastic devise, or musing away with a wry smile etched on his spectacle adorned face. The look that denotes that he is the only person privy to the joke or many anecdotes that swirl around in his presumably intellectual mind.
Legs crossed in that apt gentlemanly fashion. A relaxed disposition he exudes.
Questionable dress sense he displays. Socks with sandals, dressing like the slightly rebellious quirky cousin of a geography teacher - but that is just him.
He wouldn't suit conformity. Perhaps he was a punk or anarchist in his youth.
One wonders if he just loves the venue, what he does, who he is.
Maybe he owns the place, and enjoys nothing more to spend time sat reflecting, soaking up its easy atmosphere.
He could be a writer, a man that frequents the literary world. A man that takes delight in the arts. A man that has seen the world and types of out his myriads of adventures.
His name? It is a mystery, unless somebody takes the time to go and ask him.
Would his intriguing nature crumble if he were to be approached and it transpired that he was merely an ordinary bloke who was doing a spot of on-line supermarket shopping or using his broadsheet newspaper to disguise the fact that he was actually looking at a mucky magazine. A possible explanation for that wry smile.
The coffee shop continues to cater for various individuals as they come and go.
As always he appears to be permanent fixture.
He remains nameless.
Submitted by Demola, The Collective
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