[ WP ] You 're sitting in a coffee shop watching a man type on his computer . He types the words , `` It begins raining outside '' , and it instantly starts raining .

I sit down with my coffee and place it on the table in front of me just as it feels too hot against my skin. 
 
 `` Why do they never make these sleeves thick enough for Americanos?'' I ask myself. 
 
 I'm satisfied to get a window seat. I hate to admit it but I often find myself at a coffee shop with my work when I do n't really want to do any work. This particular coffee shop is a favourite of mine - it's in the middle of downtown and is the cross-section of interesting neighbourhoods: the east being grungy, eclectic and riddled with gentrification, and the west bustling with high-end boutiques, gelaterias, waterfronts and skyscrapers. 
 
 This clash is reflected by pedestrians on this block. I clutch my coffee in my hands, begrudgingly waiting for it to cool down. `` God, this smells heavenly.'' 
 
 I turn my head and take in the large window before me. It scales from ground to ceiling, with visible remnants of Christmas decorations and window paint. The backwards `` help wanted'' sign hangs intrusively in the corner. `` These signs never look attractive.'' 
 
 My patience dwindles and I take the lid off my coffee. Steam erupts from my cup and embrace the vaporous hug to my face. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and sigh. `` How few encounters I have, that allow me this simple pleasure.'' 
 
 I tilt the cup against my smiling lips. It's perfect. The smooth and rich lava caress my tastebuds and lull me into a daze. The temperature is perfect and I take a moment to thank myself for maintaining some semblance of patience and will against gluttony. I am content. 
 
 I take in the scene around me - it's loud and quiet at the same time. Friends are chatting along the high bar parallel to red brick walls. Men and women are reading, typing on their Macbooks, eating lunch. I then turn my attention to my neighbour, a single man bundled up in a grey scarf and black toque. His grey stubble looks whiter against the overcast sunlight from the window we share and his dark brows are furrowed behind his red and brown glasses. His concentration is admirable, but he's not typing. He's reading... and I want to know what it is. 
 
 I shift in my seat and squint my eyes. I can see the reflection in his glasses... it's a short sentence... `` It begins raining outside.''
