Red Eye

Espresso Lungo

Espresso Lungo:   This is espresso made with a long pull, to squeeze the max from the bean.  Some think it gives a stronger brew, others just a more bitter one (though that depends on the skill of the barista).

“Are you still flirting with the barista over at CC – and failing horribly?” Fletcher says, casual as you please, as he swirls the caramel into the hot drink of the blind chick who camps out for hours in one of the coffee shop booths – always by the window, where the sunlight will warm the seats and table around her.

Hadrian, self-admitted misanthrope and general unpleasant individual in a conversation, is waiting for his coffee – black as his soul – and hasn’t got time for Fletcher to malign his flirting tactics. “Shut up.”

“Bossman is sort of insulted you’re still going to the competition,” Fletcher says as he starts making a pattern in the drink the blind chick isn’t even going to see, but he’s stopped caring at this point.

“He can take heart in the fact that their coffee is shit and I suffer through every minute of it,” Hadrian says dryly, resting his head on the countertop. It’s a slow afternoon, he’s not holding up the queue.

“That might actually help,” said the barista, picking up the mug filled with delicious coffee and caramel, departing from his station to deliver it to Ember, sitting there tapping away at her computer. “Caramel macchiato for the budding author,” he announces, slipping the cup onto the table, catching Ember’s quick thanks before he’s back behind the counter and whipping up Hadrian’s coffee.

“But seriously, is she even noticing you, or are you just looking sad in the corner during her shifts?” The massive espresso machine groans as the expensive piece of machinery gets to work.

“She’s noticing me,” says the man, straightening now that coffee is looming in his future. “Hurry the fuck up, I’d like to actually get to do something in my lunch hour beyond talking to you.”

“Shush, you love talking to me,” is the baristas only reply, pushing on the lid on the travel mug and holding it out. “Everyone loves talking to me.”

Hadrian looks insultingly sceptical, taking the mug of piping hot coffee. From the back room, where Wes lurks, there comes a loud scoff, the owner making his opinion known very clearly, the bossman himself coming to stand in the open doorway.

“Tell Mac to tell his girlfriend she still owes me a couple of trays of muffins from that poker game,” Wes says.

“Tell him yourself. Not your gopher,” Hadrian says, already turning away and sipping at the coffee that should be scalding his tongue but somehow isn’t. Wes just laughs.

Hadrian does tell Mac, but it’s mostly to complain about being used as a messenger pigeon.