No Truth to the Rumor

“No water, no milk, no froth grande chai, please.”

She grabbed the large cup, started to scribble with the sharpie. “What was that again? No water, no milk? But that’s just the chai spice.”

“Exactly. After the night I’ve had, that’s about the only thing that will keep me going. Just spice. And no froth.”

“Okay, but we’ll have to charge you for the extra pumps.”

“No problem,” he said. 97 pumps and $28 later, they served him his order. As he sat in the overstuffed chair in the corner, sipping his drink, the room began to vibrate, or maybe it was just his drink, sending out seismic shocks, bending reality around him. By the time the ambulance arrived, he could no longer distinguish between the floor and the walls, the aroma of freshly ground coffee and the ambient inoffensive jazz music, his heart trying frantically to match the syncopated rhythms of the humming birds that fluttered around him. “Maybe I should have left in the froth,” he thought to himself.

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