Punchy Matcha

The venue was heaving. It was a windy Sunday morning, a group of customers just stood like statues, obviously hungover waiting for coffees. They didn’t even pass time looking at the books and magazines, or even the passes by. These drained customers just stared into space, or alternatively at the polished parquet floor.

One by one they were handed their paper cups on a small metal tray, they then paid and left, silently, with luck the coffee and fresh air would prise them back into life. Around the statues, children and dogs circled, the venue has ramed the wind outside wild. Everyone was taking shelter in some way, either huddled around the round red tables outside or crammed into the shop. The best barista in the world was working like a brilliantly tuned machine.

One gust of wind was all it took to blow a carefully, perfectly prepared unattended latte onto the pavement outside. It crashed to the ground without one sip of it being enjoyed. The spray caught a passing white poodle and its owners leather trousers,

“You careless man” the lady snapped at the vacant guy in a hoodie who sat embarrassed at the mess he caused.

“Punchy matcha” Samuel the businessman took the first sip of his green drink whist looking at a new book on the countertop.