This was done as the following exercise:   Write a descriptive scene of about 300 words without using any adjectives.

It's really very difficult!  I'm sure some have managed to sneak in.  Each time I read it I spot another one...

It made me write in a certain way but I like that it helped me to incorporate a second exercise which was recording the details of a scene which touched me. 

It's not entirely factual, I changed a few details. Most of the descriptions I made of the scene I just couldn't incorporate without adjectives.... perhaps I need to try harder

I follow the smell of coffee through the bookshop to the café, shoving a pile of books under my arm so both my hands are free to fish my purse out of my rucksack.

I order a plain cappuccino and watch like a hawk to stop them going into 'automatic pilot' with the chocolate sprinkles.

I turn about with the tray, books safely on one side, the receipt trapped under my purse, change sliding under the saturn-ring saucer.

I head for the couch in front of the window but there's a man sitting there.  The wall of silence around him steers me to the chair beside.  He's alone, he has no books or magazines, no shopping, just a black coffee on an empty table in front of him, an unopened napkin in its original place beside the cup. You would think he was relaxed if it wasn’t for the emotion which is just visible.  Sticking out like the ends of his shirt from under the jacket he hasn’t taken off.

I sit down, slinging my bag to the side of the chair and shrugging my jacket off behind me.  I scoop cappuccino foam into my mouth as I read the back of a book.

I keep being distracted by the distant silence of the man on the couch.

His concentration solidifies the air about him.  Even his clothes seem quiet.  He closes his eyes and puts his fingertips together then leans forward and sips his drink.  He sits back and almost sighs but then just lets out a breath.  It makes me think 'A prayer to coffee'.  He opens his eyes, seeing nothing.

'It's a good job he's oblivious', I think, as I realise I've been looking directly at him and go back to my pile of books.

He splays his hands with a real sigh this time and examines his fingernails. It’s the first thing that he’s looked at since I sat down.

His attention spreads from his fingertips to the objects nearby; the couch, the table, they’re stepping stones into the room. I try to look like I’m not watching.

He swallows his last mouthful of coffee, picks up the napkin and tucks it into his pocket along with his burden of thought.  Setting the cup into the dimple of the saucer he stands up and walks out.

'What was he thinking about?' I wonder, as I stare through the book in my hand.