Hipocalypse

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

Ben's hands shake a little, palm and fingers slick with sweat around the slim, plastic cylinder. He gazes at the chest high counter and chooses to stand rather than sit on one of the tall stools covered in dust and cobwebs, the cracked leather tops of the seats polished smooth.

"S'up." The Barista acknowledges him with a cautious nod and continues to polish a glass with a brown rag.

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

Ben shakes his head, pressing his lips together. Bet that rag was white once.

He doesn't answer the Barista, and instead looks around at the piles of dirt, dust, and decay.

Were it not for the jones, he wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. But needs must. He adjusts the cerulean scarf tossed artfully around his neck, despite the heat.

He can still remember what the bar would have looked like in his youth; a deep, rich, cherrywood red with a high-lacquered, glossy gleam; smooth and cool to the touch, just perfect for leaning on and laughing over with friends. Sipping sweet, hot beverages, the soft tapping on Apple products providing a muted background to the low murmur of voices above the piped-in dulcet sounds of Train and Mumford & Sons.

It's not like that anymore, though. He wouldn't touch this bar now if a herd of pug dogs were chasing him and it was the highest point in the room. Dull, cracked, with a patina of filth, he thinks of all the diseases crawling on the surface now. Ben sniffs at the lost nostalgia. He pushes his black rimmed glasses further up his nose and scratches his bearded chin.

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

"You got—" Ben's voice cracks dry and peters out. He cannot even bring himself to ask.

Ever since the Coffee Bean Crisis of 2016, when climate change alternatively washed away or dried up the trees in South America, Africa, and Asia, the world was a different place.

The global caffeine headache that ensued in the following months and years led to economic collapse and eventually, Armageddon. Bitchy governments, unable to find their fix, launched warheads, and now, the few straggling survivors attempted to scratch out an existence in the ravaged land.

A land without coffee.

Ben sighs. It's a brave new world.

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

The Barista gives Ben a sympathetic nod. His eyes flicker to Ben's right hand. "I gotcha, bruh."

Ben lets out a shuddering sigh of relief.

The scoop of beans tinkle and chatter into the hopper of a small grinder. The gentle sound segues to grinding, burring, buzzing drones.

Clack-clack-clack.

A short burst of presses on the lever spits the fine grind into small bowl of the group head. The Barista's arm flexes as he applies just the right amount of practiced pressure to the soft mound of ground beans with the rosewood tamper. He smooths the top of the pressed grind with a swirl of the tamper, and then gently knocks off any loose grounds from the top, careful o not disturb the pressed pat of grounds. The metal bowl clicks into place on the machine with a satisfying snick, and the Barista pulls the handle of the group head tight before pulling the lever to start.

Hissing, burbling, spurting spits of boiling hot water pressed at around eight to ten bars of pressure fires through the espresso grind. It is music to Ben's ears. A warm, exhilarating, full-bodied aroma fills the air.

He wets his lips. A ribbon of creamy mahogany streams into a cracked, ceramic demitasse cup.

The Barista places the cup on the bar top but does not move it toward Ben.

Ben swallows.

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

His hands tremble, slick with sweat, as he gazes at the perfect swirls of taupe to fawn crema atop the ounce of rich, ebony fluid. "It's... it's my last one."

The Barista raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. "You know they're premium. Still working? Refillable?"

Ben shudders once more. His eyes flutter shut and his head nods.

"How much is left in it?"

"It's barely used. There's plenty left in it."

Click-click, click-click, click-click.

"Well, bruh, you know the drill. I can't give something for nothing. Supplies are tight. We all have to make do."

Ben sways with the need. "Okay. Okay. Just... gimme it."

The ball point pen clatters on the counter and Ben greedily grabs the shot of espresso. He turns from the bar and skulks away to savor it slowly, not giving in to the urge to gulp it all at once.

He inhales deeply of the aroma, before letting the searing liquid touch his tongue. The creaminess, the deep, dark, rich flavor; it warms him to his toes. Tingles of caffeine ecstasy shimmer through his limbs. Palpitations ramp up his heart rate to dizzying levels.

The rush. It's incredible. Intoxicating.

Behind Ben, the Barista picks up the pen and examines it closely, his customer all but forgotten now. With a gloating gleam, the Barista lovingly tells the pen, "I've got so many verses to write with you, baby."