#literarystarbucks

Joseph O’Connor goes up to the counter and orders two bottom-shelf whiskeys. He pours one over his shoulder (“For the dead,” he says). He downs the next one in one gulp and sulks off into the cold, dark night, leaving a tattered notebook behind on the counter. “Did he tea stain this whole thing?” asks one barista. “It’s 2016,” says another. “There was no reason for him to burn the edges of the pages, either.”

Captain America goes up to the counter and punches a Nazi in the face.

Then he orders an americano.

Out of the shadows a hooded figure goes up to the counter like some stalking beast. It orders a unicorn frappuccino. After collecting its order, it drinks deeply. Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would drink such a drink. The frappe of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have drunk something pure and caffeinated to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the frappe touches your lips.

Anne Brontë ALSO ordered a drink, you guys.