ACME
03-07-2014, 12:37 AM
.
http://www.saudienglish.net/upload/image31877.html
Exclusive on English Club
Here is the audio for this story
http://www.mediafire.com/download/6u4r2f582hr3j72/The+Smell+Of++Coffee.rar
As usual, Mrs Price arrived at Alfonso’s at exactly
eleven o’clock for her morning coffee — fairtrade,
ground in-house according to the sign.
In truth, Mrs Price had little interest in fairness
of trade while the noise of the grinder made
her hearing aid shriek in protest. But the coffee
was cheap and included free refills, which she
thought as fair as a person could hope for.
Mrs Price always brought her own biscuits; it
saved money, and the owner had never complained.
Her favourite was a popular type of
chocolate wafer. She enjoyed breaking it apart
piece by piece to eat with her coffee. From her
table, just beside the front window, Mrs Price
could remain almost unseen while observing
people on the street outside. She liked to guess
what was in their shopping bags and how much
money they had spent.
Mrs Price enjoyed the smell of coffee more
than its taste. Her husband, Bill, had liked to
grind his own beans. The strong aroma was always
on his clothes and skin. It was one of the
few memories she retained of him. When she
had first passed Alfonso’s, not long after Bill’s
death, and smelt the familiar smell, she had begun
to cry. Later, when she felt strong enough,
she had started going in. She discovered that
if she sat very still, Bill would sometimes join
her. That was six years ago. Since then, she
had been arriving at the same time each day,
thinking the same thoughts, or so it sometimes
seemed to her, and waiting for Bill. She always
sat in the same place so he would know where
to find her. On this occasion, therefore, it was
a great shock to find that someone was sitting
at her table — their table: a young stranger of
perhaps 17 or 18 years of age.
“Morning, Mrs Price,” said Alfonso, whose real
name was Brian Thompson. “My nephew, Gary,”
he added, nodding towards the young man
seated in Bill’s chair — opposite her regular
place. “We’re a bit busy. Hope you don’t mind.
He won’t give you any trouble.”
The young man raised his eyebrows for a moment
and then returned to his mobile phone,
sending messages to invisible friends. But Mrs
Price did mind. She continued to stand, not
sure what to do next. Finally, she sat down carefully
on the edge of an empty seat at the same
table — her table. She studied the young man,
his long blonde hair, tattoos and an earring. It
was enough to confirm her worst suspicions.
The lost generation, she thought, full of selfish
demands and their own entitlement. How dare
Thompson let him sit there? What if Bill arrived
now and found his seat taken?
Thompson himself brought her coffee to the
table. “Clever boy. Starts university in September,”
he added. But she didn’t hear his words.
His nephew had to leave — now. It just wasn’t
right. She was about to take her first mouthful
of coffee, when the young man put his hand
out for the chocolate wafer on the table in front
of them. He tore open the wrapper and broke
off a piece, which he pushed into his mouth. It
was gone in two bites. Shocked, Mrs Price took
a drink of the hot coffee, which burned her
mouth. She watched in horror as another piece
of the biscuit — her biscuit — quickly followed.
The young man licked his fingers. Mrs Price was
lost for words. Thompson’s nephew clearly
needed to be taught a lesson. She looked round
for help, but no one seemed to notice her dilemma.
While she wiped her lips with her paper napkin,
the young man reached forward to take a
third piece. It was too much. Mrs Price pulled
the final piece of the snack towards her and
swallowed it almost whole. And then, just to
make her message clear, she grabbed a doughnut
that the young man had in front of him.
Wildly, she bit off a large mouthful, and it sent
a spray of jam across her face like a bloodstain.
She didn’t wait to see Gary’s reaction. Handbag
over her arm, she marched towards the door
and exited without looking back. The smell of
coffee trailed her out on to the street.
It was only then that Mrs Price realized she had
not paid for what might be her last ever cup of
coffee at Alfonso’s. With shaking hands, she
opened her handbag. And that is when she saw
it: the chocolate wafer she had purchased earlier
in the day to eat with her coffee.
/////
//
/
The End
.
http://www.saudienglish.net/upload/image31877.html
Exclusive on English Club
Here is the audio for this story
http://www.mediafire.com/download/6u4r2f582hr3j72/The+Smell+Of++Coffee.rar
As usual, Mrs Price arrived at Alfonso’s at exactly
eleven o’clock for her morning coffee — fairtrade,
ground in-house according to the sign.
In truth, Mrs Price had little interest in fairness
of trade while the noise of the grinder made
her hearing aid shriek in protest. But the coffee
was cheap and included free refills, which she
thought as fair as a person could hope for.
Mrs Price always brought her own biscuits; it
saved money, and the owner had never complained.
Her favourite was a popular type of
chocolate wafer. She enjoyed breaking it apart
piece by piece to eat with her coffee. From her
table, just beside the front window, Mrs Price
could remain almost unseen while observing
people on the street outside. She liked to guess
what was in their shopping bags and how much
money they had spent.
Mrs Price enjoyed the smell of coffee more
than its taste. Her husband, Bill, had liked to
grind his own beans. The strong aroma was always
on his clothes and skin. It was one of the
few memories she retained of him. When she
had first passed Alfonso’s, not long after Bill’s
death, and smelt the familiar smell, she had begun
to cry. Later, when she felt strong enough,
she had started going in. She discovered that
if she sat very still, Bill would sometimes join
her. That was six years ago. Since then, she
had been arriving at the same time each day,
thinking the same thoughts, or so it sometimes
seemed to her, and waiting for Bill. She always
sat in the same place so he would know where
to find her. On this occasion, therefore, it was
a great shock to find that someone was sitting
at her table — their table: a young stranger of
perhaps 17 or 18 years of age.
“Morning, Mrs Price,” said Alfonso, whose real
name was Brian Thompson. “My nephew, Gary,”
he added, nodding towards the young man
seated in Bill’s chair — opposite her regular
place. “We’re a bit busy. Hope you don’t mind.
He won’t give you any trouble.”
The young man raised his eyebrows for a moment
and then returned to his mobile phone,
sending messages to invisible friends. But Mrs
Price did mind. She continued to stand, not
sure what to do next. Finally, she sat down carefully
on the edge of an empty seat at the same
table — her table. She studied the young man,
his long blonde hair, tattoos and an earring. It
was enough to confirm her worst suspicions.
The lost generation, she thought, full of selfish
demands and their own entitlement. How dare
Thompson let him sit there? What if Bill arrived
now and found his seat taken?
Thompson himself brought her coffee to the
table. “Clever boy. Starts university in September,”
he added. But she didn’t hear his words.
His nephew had to leave — now. It just wasn’t
right. She was about to take her first mouthful
of coffee, when the young man put his hand
out for the chocolate wafer on the table in front
of them. He tore open the wrapper and broke
off a piece, which he pushed into his mouth. It
was gone in two bites. Shocked, Mrs Price took
a drink of the hot coffee, which burned her
mouth. She watched in horror as another piece
of the biscuit — her biscuit — quickly followed.
The young man licked his fingers. Mrs Price was
lost for words. Thompson’s nephew clearly
needed to be taught a lesson. She looked round
for help, but no one seemed to notice her dilemma.
While she wiped her lips with her paper napkin,
the young man reached forward to take a
third piece. It was too much. Mrs Price pulled
the final piece of the snack towards her and
swallowed it almost whole. And then, just to
make her message clear, she grabbed a doughnut
that the young man had in front of him.
Wildly, she bit off a large mouthful, and it sent
a spray of jam across her face like a bloodstain.
She didn’t wait to see Gary’s reaction. Handbag
over her arm, she marched towards the door
and exited without looking back. The smell of
coffee trailed her out on to the street.
It was only then that Mrs Price realized she had
not paid for what might be her last ever cup of
coffee at Alfonso’s. With shaking hands, she
opened her handbag. And that is when she saw
it: the chocolate wafer she had purchased earlier
in the day to eat with her coffee.
/////
//
/
The End
.