Jack Barrels stands behind the large black and silver metal coffee machine, his large heavy set arms working the small handles of the espresso groups, twisting, turning, ejecting and inserting. The muscularity of his tanned forearms is such that the barbed rose vine tattoo that runs up the right side one from wrist upwards to under his shirt looks almost real; its vibrant reds and low skin tanned greens vibrating in the winds of the man's movements. "Espresso - double," the customer decides. "Yes, sir," I pipe out. Click, click, ching, money. Another order in on a crazy busy day at the cafe I have been working at for about a year full time. Why did everyone decide to come to the sea on my day off? I was supposed to be out there surfing the waves, not thinking about Harry (my ex-boyfriend of two weeks) and just generally getting the stresses and strains of life and the week out of my system on the cusp of a good wave or two. I'm definitely not supposed to be perving at the weekend barista (the handsome Mr.
