Caff Americano I was sitting in the caf. The afternoon sun in winter was falling into the planet.

Or so I imagined it because the sun was hiding its face behind the fog of London. The cheery yammering around me felt forced in a failing struggle to rise above Monday's weight. Monday, the beginning of another lonely week surrounded by the clatter chatter of people pretending to enjoy their fuggy day as if it was gaudy. I sipped my tea green, unsweetened Zen something. I wondered at my choosing health over java, of pretending to enjoy the grassy flavour as refreshing, even as my nostrils prickled their pleasure at this caf's heavenly aroma of coffee and chocolate. I looked into the room. I saw a lot of vacant faces, their jaws moving empty words and masticating empty calories. Would even Sherlock Holmes be able to discover something, here in this animated vacuity? I imagine that it would been his kiss of death. I finished my tea, arose. I tossed the cup into the trash, turned to leave. But didn't. I turned back to the barista and for the first time in my life ordered a Caff Americano. The name has always sounded exotic. 'Would you like that long?' I had no idea what that was asking, and enough vanity to feel ashamed at my ignorance. 'No, keep it short, please.' I thought I heard the start of a half-smothered chuckle from him, and a snort from the barista standing to his left. Over small cups of steaming dark liquids she appeared to be incanting, with her hands, someone's hoped for splash of real happiness in Monday's London fog.

I moved to be out of the way while I waited for my short drink. The drink-maker called out 'Macha Latt, kiss of London!' The woman who claimed the large drink rushed to her table where she immediately shared it with an excited someone there. I wondered what about the green drink warranted it being 'kiss of London.' 'Americano!' the barista called as she turned with the smaller than expected cup and placed it in front of me without looking up. 'Thank you.' I hesitated before picking it up: I didn't know if you put sugar and/or cream in an Americano, and the barista was already busy decocting another potion. So I picked up the drink, moved to the condiments area, lidded the cup of unadulterated coffee. I left the caf's clattering cloud of talking heads to walk in fog towards the dock. The cup was hot in my hands, the aroma rich in my nose, the blackness untasted.