C is for Coffee Shop

Friday hurried down the higgledy piggledy staircase of her studio. The white paint on the stairs was faded, chipped, incredibly scuffed. She called it ‘Shabby Chic’ but those who hadn’t grasped the concept of vintage interiors called it a mess. Friday’s studio was on the second floor of a rather peculiar building in the heart of downtown Manhattan. Its location- a stone throw away from the Artists block thus attracting a varied and interesting crowd of customers and artisans. The ground floor housed a rather odd, bohemian coffee shop. Old leather sofa’s were tucked neatly around vintage suitcase coffee tables and quirky art deco lamps and chandeliers dangled ominously above them. The floor was a deep mahogany, reclaimed of course and showing signs of the wear and tear it had received through its lifespan like wrinkles mapped across skin, every line and scratch holding the secrets to a memory or a thought that had once taken place there.
Along one side were bookcases that ran the length of the shop, adorned with tired leather bound books that had seen better days, an odd array of empty jam jars filled an assortment of trinkets;  buttons, wooden thread spools, wine bottle corks and old flakey brushes still coated in various shades dried out paint that had been used many years before. The counter was a crazy college of postcards that Friday and Tripp had gathered on their travels and received from the regular customers that visited, protected by a layer of glass.
 
Upstairs carried on a similar theme. It was a store itself but one that was quite exclusive; a bit of a rare gem and  those who knew of it’s existence shopped there religiously. Friday was a tailor by trade but both she and her partner, Tripp, had such a passion for objects with history, vintage interiors and fashion that they decided to convert half of her studio into a shop, selling all the quirky finds that they discovered. The other half was Friday’s work area, where she would sit and sew for hours upon end, creating one-off pieces that the elite women of Manhattan would lust after and fight for like dogs in heat. She had become somewhat of a celebrity with her clothes as well as a local fashion icon.

Friday’s pastel montage of hair was piled in a shaggy side bun with a few stray wisps falling loosely around her face. She had a tape measure around her neck and was clutching a box of pins which rattled as she descended into the café’s buzzy morning atmosphere.
She wrapped her tiny arms around Tripp’s waist as he stood at the coffee machine, producing enough cappuccinos and espresso’s to keep up with the rush of customers he had that morning.
“Come to give me a hand, love?” Tripp began, trying to carry four hot mugs of coffee in one hand whilst balancing a tray of cakes in the other.
“I can’t help for long” Friday’s face was apologetic as she took the tray from his wobbling arm. “I’ve got a fitting with a Mr Montague-Calthorpe at 10.30”
“Sounds fancy. Isn't he the guy that just inherited all that money? The guy must be a billionaire now!"
"I know." Friday grinned expectantly, quickly skimming over the receipt so she knew which table had ordered.
After she had handed out the cakes she stood on tip-toe to brush Tripp's cheek with her lips "All right sweetie, gotta run! Wish me Luck!"
"Luck!" Called Tripp after her as Friday vanished back up the rugged steps to await her client.