The Espresso Salon

He’s behind the bar, polishing glasses like they’re his last remaining purpose. “I know things!” he insists. “I watch Question Time! I once bought quinoa by accident!” He pours stout with the weight of centuries. Tries to explain The Bell Jar like it’s a limited-edition craft IPA. You raise a brow, sip espresso from a flamingo-shaped chalice, and summon Virginia Woolf. — She floats in — half disapproval, half divine fog — and asks if his masculinity comes with a recycling bin. He gulps. “But I— I run a respectable establishment. We do quizzes… on Thursdays!” — Enter Frida, eyebrows arched like battle lines. She lights a cigarette with her pain and paints the room into discomfort. — Medusa follows, snakes whispering subtext. She glares at the jukebox — it turns to stone. — You intervene (reluctantly). He’s soft. Confused. Still polishing. Still hoping to be useful. — Then the Amazons arrive, wearing fury as fashion. One reprograms the jukebox to only play Nina Simone. Even the Rabbit (yes, that one) fidgets beneath the weight of liberated metaphors. — So raise your chalice, darling — to rabbits. To rage. To those who dare to feel. For this is where myth gets messy — and still, we make art from the spill.