"MUCH ABREW INDEED! Local entrepreneur Rosemary Currie's café has quickly brought a little life into a neglected part of Acadia. Frequented by office workers, stay-at-home mothers, and amateur writers alike, Much Abrew features a warm atmosphere, welcoming staff, and delicious homemade food. A great place for a snack, a coffee, or a 'damned spot' of tea!!!"
Rosemary lowers her eyes from the newspaper clipping hanging near the service counter. Her eyes skim over the elderly woman staring at her from a table across the room; they settle on the mural on the far wall. Rosemary fixates on Miranda's ecstasy at the sight of new human beings, depicted in shades of sunset. She tries to find that joy in people in herself.
Despite herself, Rosemary notices the woman turning back to speak to her companions. Not even the eye-roll from one of them can assuage Rosemary's tension when the old woman gets to her feet.
Here we go, Rosemary thinks. Oh, brave new world. She carefully polishes some of the mugs she brought back from England, and she doesn't acknowledge the old bat until she's made it right up to the counter. The woman wheezes. She drops her cup to the counter; coffee sloshes, threatens to spill, but remains contained. Rosemary suppresses a sigh. Before she can ask anything, the woman snarls:
"This is disgraceful! You think this is right? These lights, they hurt my eyes! This brisk-a-brac." The customer taps her finger on a William Shakespeare bobble-head beside the register. "Disgraceful. Disrespectful! Your pet policy is--" The woman's mouth works for a moment.
"Discriminatory?" Rosemary offers. The patron's glare deepens. Despite herself, Rosemary leans back. Her hand slides under the counter, and stays there.
"Discrimintary!" the old woman repeats. She slams a fist like folded paper on the counter. Coffee jumps from the cup to pool around it on the counter, and cat hair drifts from her clothes and onto the counter and floor like dark snowflakes. "Gets right up my spine, how you think this is right. What are you going to do about this?" She shivers with indignation. Her nostrils flare; one pupil is more dilated than the other. Rosemary's hand under the counter tenses.
"I'm sorry you're unhappy," she says. "But I've told you before--pets are unsanitary, and no one else has a problem with the lights." Rosemary watches the woman's face for a long moment before she continues. "If other customers were complaining I'd do something, but as it is--ma'am, you're only in here once a month."
The crone draws herself up to her full height; Rosemary tenses her jaw against the steely stare. There's a tic under one eye, now. Yellowed teeth grind. "Fine." Rosemary remains silent as the woman stabs her gnarled finger into the spilled coffee. The crone drags the stain out into the shape of an eye; the pupil is an x. The woman makes a ball-bearing turn, despite her frailty, and storms back to her table. Under her heckling, her two companions abandon their drinks and they all leave the café altogether. Until next month.
Rosemary releases the engraved rock she'd been holding under the counter. She stares at the eye of protection now white-knuckled into her palm, before she uses that palm to smear away the mark the crone left on the table. Rosemary meant Much Ado; the customer wanted Macbeth. Rosemary sighs.
"Much abrew, indeed."
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