Cigarette smoke is the first thing. It's what the air tastes like; gritty and delicious, like a curse word when you roll it around your mouth and off your tongue for no real reason other than the pure, beautiful decadence of the unnecessary. The sea is the second thing. There's a strong tang of salt mingling with the cloying humidity of the air, and you can feel waves breaking against the would-be-boundaries of your world. Dark clouds threaten a storm with a little more menace than storm clouds ordinarily possess, and the atmosphere sweats the first heavy, swollen drops of rain.
You're watching the pavement slip past under your feet as you head towards a small café, reached through a side street, in which every customer is a regular. It isn't sign-posted, but you can smell the coffee from a distance. You know instinctively that it is fair-trade coffee. Inside there will be a maximum of one staff-member visible at any given time. They will be more or less androgynous and wear heavy dreadlocks. The tables will be uncovered, dull wood, and the chairs will be comfortably worn; they have always been comfortably worn.
At the counter you will make a donation to save the orang-utans, because other coins visible through the Perspex box make you feel guilty, and you will order (just) a coffee. At your table the ash-tray will be overflowing and the sugar packet dispenser will be empty. The music will be too low for you to make out the lyrics and the lighting will be too dim for you to make out the other customers' faces. However, an examination of the people in the café will inexplicably cause you to realise that your hat doesn't really suit you and that you preferred your natural hair colour.
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