The cursor blinked like a tiny metronome in a silent void, daring Alyx to fill the blank page with something that mattered. Their lavender nail polish had chipped down to jagged arcs of color, giving their fingertips a battle-worn aesthetic that felt almost poetic. That silver thumb ring, etched with tiny anarchist symbols you had to squint to see, caught the overhead glare in subtle pulses. They’d bought it one summer from a friend who repurposed scrap metal into radical jewelry, and it had this intangible magic that made them feel just a little more ready to take on the world whenever they wore it.
Right now, though, it wasn’t doing a thing to fend off the echo of that rejection email still lodged in their mind: “The emotional core gets lost in the politics.” As if the daily battle to survive under capitalism wasn’t layered with so much raw feeling it practically dripped off every word. They tried counting to ten in their head, inhaling in measured breaths, exhaling until they felt the tension unwind a degree or two. The overhead light buzzed with a tired hum, and the worn-down AC vent rattled like an old friend with a never-ending cough.
Alyx glanced at the ceiling, tracing those same seven water stains that reminded them of the Pleiades tattoo on their collarbone. The tattoo was half-hidden under a faded band tee, and if you squinted, you might notice a single faint star from the design peeking above the neckline. They’d gotten that ink on their birthday one year, a spontaneous decision fueled by gin and a yearning to believe in cosmic patterns. Rising from the desk with a resigned sigh, they pushed the chair back until it groaned. The aroma of stale jasmine tea hung in the air, mixed with that faint, metallic note of electronics that had been left on standby way too long.
The floorboards beneath their feet creaked like they had something personal against gravity. It felt strangely comforting, a reminder that this apartment was lived-in, full of the ghosts of old occupant stories no one ever bothered to document. Alyx moved toward the window, touching the fraying edge of the curtains they’d sewn from retired protest banners. Faint words showed through the fabric in half-legible slogans, random letters that hinted at the countless marches they’d attended back when hope was as abundant as social media memes. Sometimes, if Alyx squinted, they could piece together entire chants that used to reverberate through those banners. Now they served as everyday décor, filtering the city’s harsh light into a gentler glow.
Outside, the neighborhood bustled in that restless way it always did, with a soundtrack of car horns, distant music, and the rumble of city buses. Heading down the street, Alyx felt an undercurrent of layered histories in every cracked sidewalk tile. Their boots, scuffed at the toes and worn thin at the heels, tapped a steady beat against asphalt. A few blocks down, they spotted where fresh graffiti had been scraped away from the walls of a now-defunct lesbian bookstore, revealing the faint swirl of a hand-painted Q and the thick serif of a T. It was like an archaeological find, a glimpse into a time that once pulsed with revolutionary energy. Beneath the chipped paint, you could practically feel the defiance and hope that used to anchor that space. The sidewalk itself had flecks of glitter embedded in the concrete—remnants from a rainbow crosswalk they’d repainted for Pride one year. The glitter caught the afternoon sun, creating tiny flecks of color that sparkled like captured stardust. Alyx inhaled the smell of wet pavement, picking up something else in the air too, an earthy note that felt like a half-buried memory of gardens now smothered by parking lots.
By the time they reached The Whispering Bean, the aroma of espresso and vanilla reached out like a greeting. There was more to it, though. A subtle layer of walnut ink, a leftover trace from the local zinesters who used to host workshops in the corner, and a nostalgic wisp of clove from back when chain-smoking poets practically lived here. The thick oak door was etched with so many carvings and notches it looked like an ancient ledger of initials and coded symbols. People who were in the know said that if you looked carefully, you could decode entire love stories from the scratches and outlines. The hinges, at least, had been oiled recently, so the door swung open without a sound.
Inside, the café existed on some parallel timeline. Sunlight filtered through stained glass transoms, painting dancing shapes onto a battered Persian rug that had probably been salvaged from a junk store. Every table was occupied by people cloistered in quiet, thoughtful conversations or solo reflection. The hush was punctuated by occasional spoon clinks against ceramic, and a few subdued laughs drifted from where two college students sat hunched over a single notebook. Their hair looked tie-dyed in pink and blue streaks, and their smudged fingertips suggested they’d been scribbling some passionate manifesto or collage of poetry for hours.
Alyx made for their regular table in the back, this old wooden piece that bore a story in every gouge and water ring. Some of the rings overlapped in ways that reminded them of planetary orbits. One carved heart with a pair of initials had been half-sanded away, but if you angled your head just right, you could still see its ghost. There was a faint indentation, too, where someone must have pressed a love letter so hard that it left a reversed imprint in the grain. Alyx liked to imagine the letter’s content—maybe it was a confessional poem or a last-ditch attempt at a reconciliation. Whatever it had been, the table remembered, even if nobody else did.
The chair wobbled on one leg, a perpetual annoyance that Alyx had attempted to fix by shoving matchbooks or folded zines under the short leg. They’d measured it once and found the discrepancy annoyingly precise. Giving in, they just leaned back and let the chair settle in its precarious balance. The rustle of the café enveloped them like a weighted blanket, grounding them for the moment.
The barista floated by with an aura of warm calm, their silver-streaked locs framing a face that seemed to know all the punchlines to cosmic jokes. A tattoo of Cassiopeia circled one wrist like a guiding constellation, though the rest of them was refreshingly unadorned today. Usually their apron sported patches or pins from local activist meetups, but now it just had these tiny holes where those pins had once lived.
“Writer’s block still got you pinned?” they asked, sliding an old mug across the table. The glaze was crackled in patterns like a dried riverbed in a heat wave, and the handle was slightly crooked, as if it had been glued back on more than once. The mug radiated warmth, not just from the steaming liquid inside, but from the sense of shared history it carried.
Alyx traced one of the cracks with a fingertip, letting the imperfection soothe them. “Looks like my words might have defected to a socialist commune somewhere. Possibly in Canada.”
The barista’s smile deepened, and laugh lines crinkled around their eyes. “I’ll have our blend negotiate their safe return.” They nodded to the chalkboard, where rainbow chalk lettering was half-faded but still readable: MUSE’S BREW – (Ask about our secret ingredients). The barista looked back, ready to say more, but their words died on their lips as the ambient light shifted.
Past the stained glass window, a figure drifted by. They wore what might have been a wedding gown in another century, though now the cloth was more tea-stained than pure white, with a lace veil full of tiny moth holes that arranged themselves in suspicious constellations. Every step they took across the wet pavement was silent, as if they were walking on air. When the figure turned to peer straight through the pane, the lights inside the café dimmed, not like a flicker of electricity, but like a collective breath held in unison. Even the stained glass seemed to grow still, as though the colors themselves tensed.
The barista glanced where Alyx was looking, then gave a knowing little sigh. “Eli’s come calling,” they murmured. They gently replaced the chipped mug with a delicate porcelain cup so thin it glowed like a pearl, steam curling from its surface in languid shapes that threatened to coalesce into something recognizable before dissolving again.
“Drink it before the visions vanish,” the barista whispered, voice carrying the hush of a secret handshake.
Alyx brought the cup to their lips and sipped, tasting the crackle of ozone just before a thunderstorm hits. It made them think of the moment a cloud turns dark and pregnant with rain, the air somehow charged enough to make your hair stand on end. The second sip tasted like old library hush and the chalky residue of mimeograph ink, the kind used in grassroots pamphlets once photocopied by the dozen. On the third sip, a wave of images broke against Alyx’s mind, more lucid than any dream:
A drag queen draped in a moth-eaten cape, flipping tarot cards while reading fortunes in coffee grounds. Two baristas in matching aprons pressing coded messages onto the fogged windows, each swirl of steam another secret. A future version of Alyx’s own hands, methodically quilting scraps of protest banners and old T-shirts into a tapestry that felt like a story you could wrap around yourself.
The porcelain slipped from Alyx’s grasp, hitting the table with a soft chime that reverberated like a far-off bell. The spilt drink spread in a shimmering puddle, and for a split second, the droplets spelled out letters in a language Alyx half-recognized, ephemeral words that read: TELL THEM WE’RE STILL HERE.
Outside, the figure in the stained wedding dress rested a translucent palm against the window. For three heartbeats, the edge of their handprint glowed with an otherworldly radiance before fading into the drizzly afternoon. A ripple of energy swept the café, a hush that fell over every conversation until even the espresso machine softened its steady hum to a gentle purr.
Alyx’s pen flew across their notebook, capturing these fleeting impressions before they could evaporate into the café’s ambient chatter. It felt like the words had been locked behind some cosmic dam for years, and now they tumbled out faster than Alyx could shape them. In the silence, the barista laid a hand on Alyx’s shoulder, offering a small nod of encouragement. Outside, Eli lingered in the rain, gaze steady, combat boots oddly pristine against the wet concrete.
In that quiet, prismatic moment, Alyx understood that there was no neat division between politics and the raw, beating heart of survival. The café’s battered walls and chipped mugs carried more than just stories—they held proof that even amidst the suffocating grind of capitalism, there was room for magic and memory. All it took was a moment of recognition, a willingness to sip from a cracked cup and see what visions might come alive in the steam
To be continued…
Gemma Ortwerth 
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