The warm aroma of coffee beans surrounds me like a hug. An eclectic mix of people are in the same queue as I am, but all are slumped and silent, craving the bitter caffeine hit that will take them through to lunchtime. Every time the door opens, cold air invades the shop and the girl in front of me shivers. She rubs her arms and looks wistfully at the pastries and muffins on display. My mouth waters when I look at the range of sticky, buttery, flaking goods behind the glass, and I know it must have the same effect on her. They’re hard to resist, and after looking at the prices, one suspects that the shop owners know exactly how tempting their wares are.

As we approach the till, the odour of cinnamon and vanilla grows stronger, and I examine the oozing bottles of syrup next to the barista. The woman who takes my order doesn’t smile, but I get the impression that she’s trying to. Half past eight in the morning and she’s already so tired the muscles in her face won’t slide a millimetre upwards. I’ll probably feel the same way in a few hours.

When I finally obtain my drink, I raise the cup and bathe my lips in the steam, flirting with the dangerously hot liquid. I get a taste of caramel syrup and milky froth for my trouble. The condensation freezes on my face as I step outside, my limbs involuntarily contracting before they adjust to the winter temperatures. Before my fingers go completely numb, I run them down the left side of my body until I reach the handle of the knife.

I savour my coffee. It might be the last one I have.