“The Muses Don’t Like Mocha”
The two dead men materialized in the coffee shop in the pause between moments. It wasn’t their first visit here, nor their second, nor their hundredth. Not because this is where history changed, though it was. Been there, done that, saved the world, tried the mocha.
They were here because of her.
Corner table. Mousy brown hair. Laptop covered with activism stickers sitting mere inches from her nose as she typed, furiously, as if there were too many words and not enough fingers.
The rest of the place was busy, but not this corner. It was as if she emitted an aura of repulsion – people walking past the table took a step away without thinking about it. Sound even seemed to dissipate quicker, something the men noticed as they pushed through the aura and sat down at the table. Maybe it was even dimmer.
She kept typing for a few seconds, then slowly registered the interlopers and stopped, a grimace twisting her face.
Straightening her back, she fixed them with a cold stare. “Gentlemen, if you are hoping to find some company for the evening, that’s not why I’m here. I have an important –“
“Important book to write.”
“That’s why we’re here. Well, again. We tried this before.”
“Before? What before? Tried what?”
The dead men looked at each other, then back to her.
“Look, do you want to live? I mean, past tonight?”