“Maybe you should use a napkin.”
It seemed an odd thing for the captain to say.
Jerry managed to get one eyelid to furl. His right.
Oh.
It was the barista.
Her name was Michelle. She was pointing.
To Jerry.
To his mouth. Which was resting crookedly on the table.
Actually, the barista was pointing to a small puddle just a little bit away from his mouth.
Drool.
“Here,” said the barista. She handed him a napkin. The look on her face could be expressed by the formula one over the square root of love. “You must’ve dozed off.”
“Thank you, Michelle,” said Jerry.
“My name isn’t Michelle,” she said. “And I’m not the barista that doesn’t appear again until the end of this narrative.”
“It isn’t?” asked Jerry, confused. “You’re not?”
“Okay,” said the barista. Whose name was Calla Lily. “You got me. I am.”
“You’re joking,” said Jerry.
“Yes,” said the barista.
“Yes, you’re the barista who isn’t going to be mentioned? Or yes, you’re joking.”
“Precisely,” said the barista. Whose name was Frida. And had never made a latte in her life.
