Moving parts

The coffee shop across the plaza had looked warm and inviting from her window. A pink and blue neon sign, that she’d not quite been able to make out hung in the steamed window, from which yellow light poured warmly onto the shiny, rain drenched cobbles.

Stood outside, she found that the place was called Mario’s and offered Café and Patisserie, but it was a small handwritten sign in the corner of the window that drew her attention.

The bell above the door tickled merrily, activated by her passage, as she stepped into the warm space. Six round tables filled the space in front of the long, high wooden bar, their shiny, brushed steel tops causing crazy reflections around the room. Two four person booths clung to one raw brick wall, while in a corner at the back, the world’s smallest stage was set with a microphone, a chair and a battered guitar.

Behind the bar, a man in a white shirt and black waistcoat stood polishing an already gleaming espresso machine.

“The sign said ‘help wanted’,” she said, hopefully.

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