Here I am sharing the work of a fellow writer, Stephen Brady.
A beautiful chilling story from the prolific locked down writer
The man in the corner looked just like anyone else. He had come in at opening time and sat at the window table. He’d ordered a cappuccino, and drank it straight down. The cup was still there, two hours later, desiccated foam clinging forlornly to the rim.
Beata had been watching the man. She liked to observe the customers. To imagine who they were, their inner lives, their histories and dreams. She’d written poems about them. One day, she hoped, they would be published in a slim and tasteful volume called Sketches from an Irish Cafe.
“Miss!” A poke in her shoulder. “Stop dreamin’. Go and ask Freaky Jean there is he wants somethin else.”
Gerry was the owner. He was a heavyset man who wore Deep Purple T-shirts and was comprehensively in debt. He wasn’t bad as bosses went – Beata had had worse, especially back home – but…
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