Owen frowned. Pubs he liked. Coffee bars he didn’t. The college kids in turtlenecks, the young professionals on their laptops — he’d lived this life and outgrown it. He wanted a drink — bourbon or scotch — not a made-up Italian word for a fancy coffee.
He heard Tosh through his earpiece. “You’re on top of the signal. It’s the right place.”
Gwen tugged on his sleeve and pointed toward the stage.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he said. “Why can’t it be another sex alien?”
Gwen giggled. “What, aliens wouldn’t want to come to Earth for an open-mic poetry night?”