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It was warm and loud in the streets, you strolled through the alleys, away from the jostling tourists. The smell of cannabis and the noise along the canals gave you a headache and so your way led you almost like a flight into the narrow streets, where it was virtually non-existent. You felt like going to a coffee shop where coffee was really the main thing. Smiling tiredly you shake your head. Ah, Amsterdam. A city so different, you have to love it. But it's also exhausting.
Your eyes fall on a wood-clad facade, with the squiggly inscription "SM Café", though you don't bother with the letters "SM" - probably the owner's initials. (You naive retard)
You step over the threshold, and a darkened room opens before you, also paneled with fine wood from the inside. Reassured, you realise that cigars are probably only smoked here now and then.
The armchairs standing around the small tables, as well as the bar stools, are leather-covered, polished smooth by decades of butts sliding over them. You decide to sit at the counter, behind which there is a certain amount of disorder. Crumbs of ground coffee litter the corners, the scent of the oily greasy fine dust found in grinders that are often used and rarely cleaned lingering in the air. The door from the next room flies open, and a barrista frantically adjusts his crooked tie, wiping sweat from his brow as he runs, his collar deftly concealing a welt on his neck. He smells of lavender. You stare at him with raised eyebrows as he prepares your espresso doppio, admittedly expertly. Cherry. You didn't hear the dominatrix coming, who suddenly stands next to you, smiling wickedly. Her leather costume stretches skin-tight over your elegant body, leaving your most intimate parts exposed. As you gasp for air, her tongue is already shoving a Mon Chéri into your mouth, while her claws dig under your shirt into your back. The firm grip on your thigh blocks your escape attempt and presses you firmly onto the barstool. "Please! I just want to drink my coffee!" you yip into the air of leather, cherry, and roasted aromas.
"Really? We rarely have anything like that here!" smirks the lady in leather. She floats back into the next room and with her, that disreputable cherry. The barrista serves you your espresso and winks at you. "Ah, Tom, you're here again!" He turns to his next customer. Standing in the doorway is Tom Ford, who is clearly caught by my gaze. After a moment's thought, he joins you at the bar, nervously sliding around on his stool and ordering his token coffee (as if he's only here to drink coffee). Wearing Tuscan Leather, he seems to have regained his self-assurance after a few minutes and casually makes his way to the next room, his scent taking him with him, thank goodness.
You sit in silence at the bar, enjoying your espresso. The barrista, who seems to have been watching you the whole time, comes over, leans forward, and only now do you notice the smell of patchouli. His carotid artery pulses beneath his collar.
"Are you sure? " he murmurs to you.
"Quite sure." You reply. Inwardly, you have to laugh.