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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.
Copyright ©
Gabrielle Munslow
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