Coffee with cat

Height, shape, size, all aligned in her.  Blue jeans fit around her proportioned hips, a slight curve over her pockets. The smooth cliffs of her shoulders, her front not over stated, like the freshness of buds of a spring blossom.  Long strands of hair pulled back, dark with nothing astray.  Tip to toe the blink of all of her stood out in her presence.

This reply, marks an image of the flow coursing within her river.  Leather heels click upon the linoleum walking back to the counter from the back.  Below the La Cimbeli machine, the surface of the counter at the waist of her jeans, the brown leather belt accentuating the border of the dark gray tee shirt.  No waves ripple under the surface, her skin taint just below its surface.  The view plenty to see, as the right and left, work of the coffee machine progresses.  Every glimpse of the height of her middle behind the apparatus of her job, gives me plenty to write about.  In a V shaped cone, coffee pikes in, ready for grinding and another espresso.  A click of the lever, coffee grounds drop into the heavy metal press.  Split seconds the widest part of its cone, lines up with her eyes.  Further description is blocked by a couple between us.  As they move over, the V of dark beans is outlined by the white alabaster skin of her face and neck, the swoping neck line penetrated by the point of the cone bottom.  She snapshots my brain with a burn that will last.  My coffee is cold and the brown bag of my muffin is collapsed.