Maggie Stiefvater orders a drink composed of long-forgotten ingredients found in the darkest reaches of the Starbucks store room, perhaps left there long ago by Stiefvater herself. The barista asks for her name to write on the cup. “Maggie,” says the author. “Just Maggie?” asks the barista. “That’s all there is,” says Stiefvater.
After the author leaves, the barista makes herself another one of the drinks and downs the whole thing. It seems made of impossible dreams. The barista is perfectly aware that it is possible to have a coffee that isn’t all-encompassing, that isn’t blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It’s just that now that she’s had this kind, she doesn’t want the other.
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