(mind if I cut in?)
Ira wandered inside the coffeehouse, humming quietly to himself and blinking around in the dim glow at warm, crowded surroundings. Despite his great fondness for coffee (and crippling inability to make it himself), he had only been by Crevasse once, and briefly, in a drowsy rush to caffeinate before starting his first day at the antiques shop. Ira took off his hat, tucking it under his arm alongside the book he’d brought to sit with. Until the sign taped to the front door had informed him otherwise, he hadn’t known that it would be Open Mic night. It was a pleasant surprise—he hadn’t anticipated anything beyond a quiet evening with his book and a shot or two of espresso, but the promise of seeing a bit of the local talent was much more exciting.
It was a room full of unfamiliar faces and the low murmur of conversation, but it was hard to miss the flamboyantly-clad figure of his coworker hamming it up in front of the counter. Ira raised his hand in a quick wave to Key and sauntered over with a wry smile. “You didn’t have that on at work this morning.”