Chapter 3 some kind of coffee

That afternoon, Wynton Carey's piano was streaming from the speakers.The waitress put the white coffee mug in front of me.The cup is thick and heavy, and it makes a pleasant "click" sound when it comes into contact with the table.The sound stayed in my ears for a long time, like a pebble falling into the bottom of a swimming pool.I am sixteen years old, and it is drizzling outside. It was a seaside city, and the south wind always carried a breath of sea tide.Sightseeing boats have to go around the harbor several times a day. I don’t know how many times I have sat on a large passenger ship on it to see the dock, and I never get tired of watching it.Even when it was raining, we stood still on the deck like soaked chickens.There is a small coffee shop near the port. It is so small that there is not even a table except for the coffee mixing station. The speakers embedded in the ceiling are streaming jazz.Every time I close my eyes, I feel like a child locked in a dark room.There is always the nostalgic warmth of coffee cups in the room, and the sultry fragrance of girls.

Now I think, what I really like is the scene of coffee rather than the taste of coffee itself.In front of me stood a shining mirror unique to adolescence, in which I clearly reflected myself drinking coffee, and behind me was a small background cut into squares.The coffee is as black as the night and as warm as a jazz melody.Whenever I drink up this little world, the background blesses me. It was also an unknown commemorative photo.In the photo, a teenager grew up in that small town.Here, he gently holds the coffee cup in his right hand, tucks his chin in, and smiles quite naturally... ok, click.

The problems of life can sometimes be boiled down to the warmth of a cup of coffee - Richard Broutigan Where is it written like this.Among the texts dedicated to coffee, I like this sentence the most.