I miss the thump of the milk jug as it comes down on the counter like a judge’s hammer. Air bubbles extinguished in return for creamy silk.
Miss the floating conversations that pass about the tables, first world outrages and everyday anecdotes.
I miss the handshake, backslaps, families jostling kids in laps while they break a pastry from the artisan, next to creased book spines and purveyors of fine art prints.
Miss the shouts, horns blasting, skateboards rolling, anonymous laughing. Moped gangs, that bloke on the steps, ladies still pounding the streets, older three times over than the hipster in sleeves.
I miss cutlery and glasses ringing out in a messy symphony, spices that cut deep like stark reality. Delivery scooters reuniting by the roadside, taxi drivers going one to one, young punks shuffling against the tide.
Miss the thick aroma of hops drifting up from weathered bars, oak-barrelled and aged. Faces that grin easier, beer spills gentle jeer with friends not yet made.