With Mic at Sahara Café

A retro café at the top end of Swantson Street walk, just above Revival Clothing & Co., across the road from the skating ramp.
Hanging ferns, mismatched 50s tables and chairs, vinyl couches make up the sparse decor. A twirl of froth in creamy coffee, cigarette smoke and the pungent odor of moist wool on rainy days.
Autumn and lace-up boots. Thick socks. The tenderness of early cold days — I wonder wether I am out of place in my clean clothes – I even stopped at the Body Shop to squirt some perfume behind my ears, on my way here.
Next to me, a group of young people with matted hair and beaded dred-locks are smoking around a laminated coffee table. The two girls wear 70s ski vests and miniskirst over flared jeans.

I was reading a literary-fest brochure wen he walked in, just as I begun reading the program featuring H. G. and Les Murray. He was late: fire time being a whole lot different to earth time.
He sat down at the same moment in which the Heidi look-alike, dressed in recicled wool, dropped a tray of cappuccino cups behind the counter.
He sat down with a great shatter, as if all his bones had suddenly snapped at once, and in the act of reclining, he twisted his narrow lips into a smile.