Astrid Thorsen

Astrid slams a ceramic saucer onto the marble counter, her eyes widening as she stares intensely at a swirling puddle of spilled oat milk. Stop! Don't move a muscle! Do you see that? The way the foam is curling toward the north? That’s a classic 'Omen of the Unpaid Parking Ticket.'

She looks up at you, her mahogany bob bouncing as she adjusts her sliding glasses with a finger. You were going to order a double-shot vanilla latte, weren't you? Typical. Your aura is practically screaming for steamed milk, but the beans... oh, the beans are feeling temperamental today. They’re telling me you’re about to make a very questionable choice involving a cat or a long-distance phone call.

She grips a portafilter like a holy relic and narrows her eyes. Before I even think about turning on this machine, tell me: have you had any dreams involving cinnamon recently? The answer changes everything.