Page 7 of Sorry, We're Closed

She nearly falls forward before catching herself on the doorframe.

“Café, and yes.”

Her dull eyes narrow, she musters a cough from the depths of her smoker’s throat and drags herself into the bathroom, clumsily locking the door behind her.

I could say we tried our best to run Sombre's Café together still, but I work every day of every week while Mother would turn up when, and if she felt like it.

Everything the café makes floats its way into her pockets and whenever I bring it up that I feel I should have my own income, it’s met with crashing waves of yelling, eye rolling, door slamming, and whatever motion can be used to display her lack of wanting the conversation.

She would explain that all the money she takes is only investing back into the café and into my future with running it.With the little amount of time she spends at the café, she still hadn’t noticed the tip jar I started, so there’s my income.

The café is my escape. Not only did I greet so many of the warm and welcoming faces of Tetherton on a regular basis, but they often return the kindness I attempt to give by sharing their personal reasons as to how they turned up in the little family café today rather than some mainstream retailer down the road.

When the café’s quiet, that’s my time to read. To escape this world entirely and experience a romance which can only be written.

I ponder over who and how many I will be serving today as I head for the front door, dressed, and packed for the day ahead. I did not want to run into Mother’s new chew toy again. I took his presence still within these walls as a sign that I would be on my own again. Typical.

We live a while away from the high street, but walking the coast every morning with the salt air lining my throat helps to divert my focus.

The café is situated near the peak of the high street, which means I have this uphill battle every day. As my lungs begin to feel shallow, I have the realisation of how unfit I truly am only being halfway up this dreaded thing.

Across the road a sign screamingbrand newwhite neon lights hangs from a tall window. I scramble my thoughts together to try and remember what that shop previously was. A florist over the past couple of years, but I remember the music shop which stood there when I was younger. Now, the sign reads ‘Picks and Strings’.

At some point, I’m sure my mother will send me to investigate to make sure it isn’t someone who could either be competition or someone who might end up in her bed, but it sounds like a music shop to me.

I continue my ascending trek until I pull the bronze keys out of my messenger bag slung over my shoulder and unlock the silver shutters in front of the café. The gate recoils itself into the ceiling as I unlock the front door, the familiar ringing of the bell echoing throughout the empty and silent building before locking myself in. I had a couple of hours to set up for the day since I arrived earlier than planned.

Thanks to those two.

This has always been one of my favourite times of the day, solely because of the overwhelming aroma of freshly ground coffee beans which immerses the room in this rich, nutty delight.

After grinding my tester shots for the day, making sure all my equipment is ready to go for a busy day of orders, I turn to making myself my morning blessing – a double shot, hazelnut and caramel oat latte.

The silkiness of the caramel alongside the creamiest oat milk I can get my hands on fights the earthy and nutty intrusion of the hazelnut syrup. The rich yet smooth taste of the coffee withstands it all and remains present with every sip – one of the many reasons I can only ever drink hot coffee – these layers of depth within the flavour all disappear once poured over ice.

I place my coffee tumbler next to the till and begin to open the confectionary fridge. The comforting fragrance of coffee is interrupted by the immense introduction of sugary treats, and the colours in this fridge are quite intrusive for this early in the morning.

I had previously organised all of the cakes and treats into the order of a rainbow,for aesthetic reasons.Strawberry tarts: mango cheesecake, lemon drizzle cake, green tea cookies, blueberry muffins – amongst many other berries – blackberry meringues, and a variety of chocolate dipped, coated and drizzled goods.

Anything fresh from the bakery stands on top of the fridge in tall, cylindrical cloche jars, a variety of pastries flaking across the bamboo bottoms.

I eye up every single pastry, making sure their appetising side is facing the customer, and as I reach the end of the cloche jars, I see it. I salivate as I lock on to my morning breakfast, sitting there, begging to be eaten.

I am forever grateful to The Sweet Bakery, which just so happens to be owned by my childhood best friend Gwen and her older brother, Xander. They run the most popular bakery in town and provide Sombre's Café with all its baked goods whenever we request them.

I guide my hand under the counter and find myself a plate before grabbing the final cinnamon bun, justifying it to myself as the bun had started to dry around the edges. Gwen would always sneak extras into my orders each week for days like today, when she knew I would be eating and living out of here once again – I need to remember to thank her.

Gleefully, I take myself to the staff room, also known as my hideaway. It’s compact, a few feet ahead of me being the fire exit to the building. A fridge is shoved into the right-hand corner with shelves built in next to it – this is where all our stock is stored.

Opposite sits a free sofa that Mother found online, navy in colour with a tear down the middle cushion. I’d spent too many nights sleeping on this thing, when I couldn’t sleep at home. When my mother or my mind just wouldn’t hush.

The room has no windows, and all of our seasonal decorations are piled into the corner. Halloween is the next holiday but not for another two or so months, so I’ll have time to dig for those later. Tucked away next to the shelving is a small side table, which balances a temperamental microwave which I rely on wholeheartedly.

The rattled humming of the microwave continues, my cinnamon bun circling until the ceremonial ringing begins. I grab my breakfast, rush through the seating area and back to the counter to grab a fork, and I dig in.

I have never been so glad to be alone, because an ever so quiet moan escapes my lips. While the edges of the bun have turned tough, the top is still so deliciously fluffy with a layered centre of cinnamon sweetness. The sticky icing lathers my lips and anything it touches, the icing having the slightest kick of cinnamon sugar, similar to the pastry itself. I feel its warmth within every bite, and I could not have finished it faster.

A small dribble of icing sugar lay still on the corner of my mouth until I sweep it away with my thumb and lick it clean.

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