The Espressialist notes a peculiar newfound sense of urgency in the air in this early twilight hour.
Human customers are pouring into The Twilight Owl in droves, lining up out the door to buy cases of these tiny coffees.
Most people simply prefer to unwind at the coffee bar with one elegantly crafted brew, occasionally getting something to take home with them only after steeping in the sophisticated atmosphere there.
These patrons, however, tear open into their fresh purchases like starving animals, demanding their pods be turned into beverages right away. There is a sort of quivering in their tones as they hastily reassure the Espressialist that they will be back for more soon and that they apologize for not being able to buy anymore at the moment.
Frankly, she has never seen anyone get so much in the first place.
She wonders if the explanations are more for themselves than for her. These humans seem to be hanging onto their own words, which stumble out in foreign stutters, like a lifeline someone else has thrown to them. Even before the caffeine they seem quite jittery, uneasily darting their eyes around and muttering out their orders in hushed whispers.
Elizabeth squints at the tiny teal pyramid pod inlaid in the wooden table before her. It gleams back with an almost malicious glint.
What is happening here?
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