Jean stirs her large skinny Mocha in a daze.
She sees everything, hears everything,
smells the coffee and tastes the chocolate,
but absorbs absolutely nothing.
Her husband, always infuriated when offered milk in his Americano,
would sit there ranting into thin air;
orchestrating an impromptu game of Subbuteo
with the crumbs from his Millionaire Shortbread:
ironically allowing his coffee to go cold.
in the Costa by King's Cross,
the absence of any annoyances
completely crushes her comfort.
One hour later,
sat huddled in the vestibule,
on the 11.23 to the seaside,
an empty cardboard cup escapes her grip.