Existential Beverages

Management of Espresso A Go-Go Assumes No Responsibility

Welcome to Day #20. Earlier episodes are listed below.

This little series intersects with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day ADVENT-ture 2025. She’s invited us all into her world.

PROMPT (#20): How will your character meet the Light of Chosen Family?

Day 1: Welcome to Nevicata
Day 2: A Light Snack
Day 3: Breakfast of Impolite Champions
Day 4: Case of the Nightmare Scarf Lady
Day 5: Ferrel versus the Princess Posse
Day 6: Life Takes Practice
Day 7: Hide-and-shriek
Day 8: Happiness is a Warm Bath
Day 9: Open Mic, Open Heart
Day 10: Disasterpieces
Day 11: Disastermath
Day 12: A Matter of Temperment
Day 13: Stage Fright
Day 14: Nyxie’s Choice
Day 15: Utter Otter Madness
Day 16: The Unbearable Height of Tradition
Day 17: Double Vision
Day 18: You Can’t Go Home
Day 19: Permission

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Read GrousyGirl’s day #20 companion piece:

How Mairead Got Her Wail Back: 20

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Morning in the café arrived reluctantly.

Light crept in through the front windows as if it weren’t sure it was welcome yet, catching on floating motes of sugar dust and yesterday’s glitter fallout. The espresso machine sat dark and sulking. Chairs were still upside-down on tables. The bell over the door hadn’t rung once—mostly because the door was locked and the sign said CLOSED.

Mr. Shade woke on the couch with his coat still on and no memory of deciding to sleep there.

This did not trouble him.

He sat up, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, and listened. The café was quiet in the particular way places got when they had survived a long night and were now pretending it hadn’t mattered.

Behind the counter, Tessela was already awake.

She stood on a small stool, polishing the chalkboard menu with unnecessary aggression. One of her lacquered arms squeaked faintly at the elbow.

“You’re early,” she said, without turning.

“I never left,” Mr. Shade replied.

She snorted. “That explains the bad dreams.”

He moved behind the bar as if it were a place he had always been allowed to stand. Found the grinder. Checked the beans. Adjusted the flame under the kettle—not up, not down, just… right.

Tessela glanced over her shoulder.

“What,” she asked, “are you doing?”

“Making coffee,” Mr. Shade said.

“That is my job.”

“Normally,” he agreed.

She hopped down from the stool and folded her arms, wooden fingers clicking together. “That machine bites,” she warned. “And the cups don’t like strangers.”

Mr. Shade inclined his head. “I’ll be gentle.”

He selected a cup—not one of the front-facing ones, but a plain, dark ceramic mug from the back shelf that Tessela did not remember owning. He weighed the grounds in his palm instead of using the scale, then let them fall into the portafilter with deliberate care.

Tessela watched, frowning.

“What are you making?” she asked at last.

Mr. Shade tamped once. Paused. Then tamped again—lighter.

“The Black Interval,” he said.

Tessela’s jaw dropped a fraction of an inch.

“You cannot serve that to customers,” she said.

“I’m not,” Mr. Shade replied. “I’m drinking it.”

The Black Interval was a short, pitch-dark espresso pulled impossibly slow, served without sugar, milk, or explanation. The crema was unnaturally still, as if listening. Drinking it created the sensation of a breath held just outside time—long enough for thoughts to settle into their proper order.

The machine hissed to life without its usual complaints. The pull was slow. Impossibly slow. The crema settled like a held breath.

He winked and took a sip.

He closed his eyes.

Nothing outward happened.

No sparks.
No glow.
No ominous hum.

Only a man standing quietly, having a cup of coffee like he’d earned the silence it came with.

When he opened his eyes again, Tessela was still watching him—unblinking, arms crossed, jaw set in the particular way that meant this better be worth it.

“Well?” she demanded.

Mr. Shade set the cup down with care.

“There will be another Open Mic,” he said.

Tessela made a sound that was not a word, but carried years of meaning.

“Tonight.”

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not. We just survived one. I am still finding glitter in places where glitter has no business being.”

“Everyone will be here,” Mr. Shade went on. “Nyxie. Ferrell. A frog with a baton.”

Tessela closed her eyes.

Mr. Shade continued, unhelpfully thorough. “Also three cat-girls. Very goth cat-girls.”

Tessela opened one eye. “Those three are anything but goth.”

“And,” he added, “what may or may not be a banshee. I couldn’t get a clear read on her. There is a doll with her—although it doesn’t seem pleased about the arrangement.”

Tessela stared at him.

“There will be a small fire,” Mr. Shade added. “Nothing you can’t handle. And the pixie is fine, by the way. Pine pixie. The smell should be pleasant.”

She turned and banged her wooden forehead against the espresso machine.

“Why,” she said into the metal. “Why me.”

“You could charge extra,” Mr. Shade offered, “for existential beverages.”

She straightened, gears whirring softly. “What do you suggest?”

Before he could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Solaine appeared at the bottom, scanning the room—clearly hoping to find Ferrell, or Nyxie, or preferably both.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Mr. Shade smiled at her in a way that was perhaps a fraction too attentive.

She noticed. Blushed. Pulled her shawl tighter.

“Apparently,” Tessela said, “this man thinks we’re hosting an Open Mic tonight. Claims he saw it in a coffee trance.”

Solaine raised an eyebrow and looked at Mr. Shade.

“A modest affair,” he said quickly, lifting his hands. “Low stakes. Minimal screaming. I was about to assist Tessela in preparing a small menu of… thematic beverages.”

Solaine glanced at Tessela.

Tessela shrugged. “I’ve stopped asking why everyone wants me to suffer.”

Mr. Shade turned back to Solaine. “May I make you a drink?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Sure. Whatever you feel like making.”

Tessela shook her head. “That’s a mistake,” she said.

Mr. Shade smiled.

“I have just the thing,” he said. “You’re going to love it.”

Solaine sat at the counter with both hands wrapped around the cup Mr. Shade had placed in front of her.

It did not steam. That alone was suspicious.

The surface of the drink was cool—pleasantly cool—like night air after a long day of heat. She took a careful sip and blinked.

“Oh,” she said.

Mr. Shade watched her over the rim of his own cup, saying nothing.

The flavor bloomed softly at first. Bitter. Clean. Almost ordinary. Then—half a heartbeat later—warmth unfurled beneath it, deep and sudden, spreading through her chest and down her spine like someone had turned up the sun by a few thousand degrees.

She inhaled sharply.

“That’s…” She searched for the word. “…not how temperature works.”

“No,” Mr. Shade agreed.

She took another sip, less careful this time. The heat followed again, hotter now—but not too hot for her. She was a Fire Sprite after all.

Her shoulders loosened. The constant hum of fire in her veins shifted, softened, like it had been persuaded to sit instead of pace.

“This is making me feel,” she said, “…funny.”

Mr. Shade smiled. “Funny good or funny bad?”

She laughed, surprised by the sound. “Like I’ve forgotten what I was worried about. Like I could sit here for a very long time and stare into your eyes.”

He leaned back, giving her space rather than taking it.

She studied him then—really looked. The stillness. The way he didn’t push. The way he seemed content for her to be content.

“Do you like me?” she asked, abruptly.

Mr. Shade paused.

“Like,” he said, “is a small word for what I’m curious about.”

Before she could press him, before the warmth could settle any deeper—

THWUMP.

The sound hit the front door hard enough to rattle the glass.

From behind the counter, Tessela groaned.

“Oh god,” she said. “What now?”

Another thump. Followed by a wail—respectable volume, dramatic intent.

Solaine jerked, the spell snapping like a thread pulled too tight. She blinked, heat flushing her cheeks as the drink’s strange calm retreated.

“What—?” She shook her head. “Okay. Nope. That drink is—dangerous.”

“We’re closed!” Tessela called.

Solaine sighed, already standing. “It’s the banshee.”

Tessela’s eye twitched. “Of course it is.”

Solaine crossed the café and unlocked the door. Cold air rushed in, carrying grief, frost, and a very specific sense of urgency.

Mairead stood there, finger raised, hair wild, eyes bright with purpose.

“I need espresso,” she declared. “And an Open Mic. Immediately.”

Solaine stepped aside. “Please come in.”

As Mairead swept past, Mr. Shade’s gaze followed her—not curious like before, but measuring. Thoughtful. As if a new piece had just entered a complicated game.

He glanced at Solaine once more.

Such an interesting woman, he thought.

Very interesting indeed.

Once the banshee’s business was complete, he stood up, excusing himself. There was a lot to do to get prepared. He would make a few phone calls. Bring in a few people to keep things from getting out of hand. Perhaps a band or two.

And perhaps something special for Solaine—something worthy of the evening. A bit presumptuous perhaps. Definitely forward. But Devlin Shade was not the type of man to ask permission.

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