Small clouds swirled around the top of the coffee. Not real clouds, of course, but small steamy collections of fluffy milk. Real clouds would ruin coffee, you fool. Actually, the milk was too steamy, burning my tongue as I rose the beveridge to my quivering lips.
Opposite me, at another table, a man drank a similar beveridge. Could have been tea, maybe not. He was tall, majestic, probably Aztec. I hoped he wasn't Cinteotl, the god of Maize. I'd done some bad things to maize over the years, and I doubt he'd take to kindly to them.
I watched the man for a while, out of the corner of my eye, but he didn't appear to be a maize-concerned deity. After a while, I got up and went home. You probably feel I've waisted your time here. You'd be right, so go outside and play in the sunshine children.