I was gazing into a coffee shop again while parked outside it. The scene is my ever favorite: a view of the cozy comforts of a coffee house as night sets in.
As the chill sets in, more people nestle inside comfortable coffeehouses, sipping the brew.
I have written a scene like this sometime earlier where there is a Cafe somewhere near the Trevi fountain in Italy and the protagonist hero is preparing for an evening performance of either a violin playing or a poetry recital (I was never sure). Italians are evening coffee people, as opposed to the English and Americans, so the cafe is bustling with life.
Let me run a search on my computer to see if I still have the scene written down somewhere. *searches*
Found it! I give you excerpts from Chapter One: The Cappuccino
“Cappuccino Romano, please.”
I looked up as my strained focus on my guitar strings broke and my frown from frustrated effort disappeared. Her melodious voice broke my trance each evening. Despite it being a bit nasal today because of the seasonal flu; maybe, or excessive sobbing, it was alluring. I found it nothing compared to the tunes of my compositions that were applauded each evening or the eloquence of my words. I deserved a break from my usual routine of struggle and I allowed myself that and set my guitar aside, without finishing tuning it and lifted the cup of coffee.
She walked across the café to take her regular seat by the small west window and pulled her woolen cap off. Her gloves from her frozen white hands, and her muffler from around her neck, followed and were stacked neatly in a pile on her table. It was December, the morning next after Christmas, and the winters at this time usually took the best of The Eternal City of Rome – and of Hailey Aurora. She pulled up her frizzy hair into a rough bun and tucked the rebellious waves of thick locks that struggled free to fall into her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered and snuggled into the warm sofa and gazed absently out the window that overlooked the great Trevi Fountain.
As she became absolutely still – a statue of silent beauty even through the frost, my eyes lingered to the wooden chair besides me where my compositions lay haphazardly seeking my attention to pick them up for the evening’s entertainment. It was early evening and the sun had begun its descent after having bravely paraded on the streets of the city of legends. The rays angled into the Café from the windows facing the west. It made the dark brown in her hair glow a brilliant glow and her complimenting irises reflected the light towards me each time she glanced out at the Trevi fountain.There weren’t too many ears to please at the Cappuccino, as yet. The rush hours were the mornings and the nights. The mornings were packed with Italian breakfasters and that was one reason I preferred the evening shifts. Italians liked their cappuccinos at breakfast. When I played, I could easily entertain the non-Italian audience with my compositions. Ever since I’d moved to the Eternal City, I followed the saying a bit too cautiously. When in Rome, do what the Romans do.The only thing I didn’t do Roman was the cappuccino. I played and sipped British.