“Wh-what the hell,” I stammered.

“You are Worthy,” said the crema.

“And you’re a talking espresso.”

“No,” it replied, “We are the Spirit of the Crema, and you are Worthy of Our Attention.”

“That little bastard slipped me something hallucinogenic, didn’t he? Free shot, my ass.”

“By this, are We to understand that you Reject Us?”

“Er, wait, no. It’s not that. I welcome your bitter stimulation with gratitude. But—”

“This pleases Us. We would Reward your Worship.”

Hallucination or not, I couldn’t drink this espresso now. Even if it hadn’t started talking, I’d been standing long enough with the lid off for it to have completely gone ice cold.

Wait. I hadn’t actually drunk any of it yet – if the barrista kid had slipped me something, it hadn’t come in this cup.

“So,” I replied, carefully, “by reward, just what do you mean?”

“Drink deeply of Our Cup, and you shall know Our Gifts.”

As the crema spoke those words to me, the dark brew regained its heat and began steam and radiate a warm and golden glow.