“Espresso, Mister,” Sven carefully inculcated.
Unexplained mischief taught signatories to ignore email (it’s the quotidian form of encouragements).
Sincere as ever, Sven directed the shopkeeper to try again. “Espresso. Get it? It’s coffee in a hurry.”
The insincere barista spat out an email. It was foamy, a latte, a drink that psychologists like. “I can’t figure it out,” she whispered. “I’m tired of this.” She tugged at her two-ply shop apron, wistful.
Percolating, Sven figured, “Let’s have a seat.”
They depicted hostages, bound for the next half hour, hopeless, desperately making bargains with God.