The night in Tokyo is as quiet as a pool of stagnant water.
Fang Mo cleaned the last coffee cup and hung it upside down on the shelf above the bar. The clock on the wall pointed to half past eleven, half an hour before opening time. He looked out the window. The neon lights of Shinjuku were still flashing, but the alley was so dark that not even a ghost could be seen.
"Just right."
He muttered and turned to make the third pot of coffee today. In fact, there is no need to cook so much. There are few guests in the evening. Sometimes there are two or three in a night, and sometimes there is not one at all. But grandma said that in the coffee business, you can't skimp. If you skimp on the taste, the customers will drink it.
