Tall old man with tripped white beard, somesort of wide-brimmed safari hat, spectacles, and a British accent walks up to the bar and asks Megan and I about espresso beans: what do we have in stock, how much please, imported from what country?

Megan and I answer his finicky questions graciously?neither of us are coffee drinkers and are of the firm opinion that it is a vile habit: stunts growth, turns teeth bad colours, undoubtedly gives one premature wrinkles, ruins personalities, causes cancer, causes wars, caused the Fall of Man, is blatantly obnoxious in excess, was invented my communises, etc. Actually, we only believe about half of those to be verities, though, if pressed to, we could probably come up with more outrageous reasons not to cultivate a coffee habit.

The man?s friend approaches the counter?Megan is grounding the first man’s espresso beans and getting the men twelve-ounce coups of coffee.

Grinding coffee beans and steaming milk has already profoundly taken its toll on my already not-so-keen hearing capabilities. The second man says something to Megan?something that sounds similar to The Brothers Karamazov.

–Dostoyevsky, I say?

The second man?s eyes light up.

–Yes!, he exclaims.

–He is my favourite author, I state.

–The Idiot!, exclaims the old man, excitedly.

–Yes!, I say, Crime and Punishment! I’ve had some sort of literary crush on Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov - I read the book when I was eighteen, though. I mean, come now, a crush on an old lady murderer? I love old ladies! They’re really smart and know next to everything about life. Having a crush on Raskolnikov probably indicates some inconsistency of character on my part. I better had read the novel again soon and investigate the reasons why I fancy him. That and Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, I fancied him when I read the book at fourteen. I need to reread that book, too and figure out my reasons. p>His jaw drops.

–The Idiot! The Adolescent!, I say in an attempt to keep the conversation from stalling.

–Yes!, he exclaims.

–The Possessed! Notes from the Underground!

–The old fellers are looking at me with positively giddy and ridiculous expressions on their faces.

–Demons!, says the first old man. Did she just say The Idiot?

–House of the Dead!, says the second. And she did!

–Those are on my list to read, I tell them. I bought a book of his short stories last semester? I’ve not had the chance to read it. I’m really excited to, though. And The Gambler! I recently bought that one too.

The two Colonial-looking Europeans stand there and look at one another.

–She is an intellectual, says the first to the second, in a very serious, irony-free tone.

I am about to say: How dare you throw such an accusation at me! I’ll not have it! You return from a safari only to call me an intellectual? You must not have managed to learn anything on your quest!, but I successfully bit my lip and stifle my outrage.

The second nods at the first:
–That she is.

They walk away nodding.

I start to feel a Peter Verkhovenskyian smirk creeping on my face and the urge to engage in some affirmation of creative destruction and bring Borders to its knees in front of 1860?s Russian Nihilism by starting the coffee bar on fire and throwing dishes circa Barazov, Kropotkin, M. Bakunin, Vera Figner.

–Now Self, I say, you (I) need to not get so irked at their mindless comment. You’re starting to think silly fanciful thoughts again, the kind that got you lost in the middle of Downtown last night. Besides, you would get fired and owe The Man a whole lot of money if you lit the store on fire, and lighting someone else’s property on fire isn’t a nice thing to do - you need a job, besides! I (me) am imposing a restriction on you (I). From now on you (I) are only to think constructive thoughts. No more of this nonsense. You’re (I’m) going in back to do the dishes.