As his friends attempted to console him with drole stories of American tourists, Henri stared blankly at the bottles of flavored syrups. He no longer cared -- about anything at all. He felt the caffeine dwindle within him as he slowly became mediocre. Even the proper pronunciation of "espresso" no longer mattered to him. What, he wondered, was on television tonight?
An exasperated man in a tie and apron walked briskly across the room toward Henri, waving his arms in huge circles above his head. "I am terribly sorry, monsieur," he said, deliberately over-rolling all of his rs, "but we do indeed have a vanilla hazelnut mocha frappucino. It will be here in juste un moment."
Henri's cadre oh-la-laed and ca ne rien a faired, making exclamations about decadence and demanding to know if the waiter truly understood the significance of the concept of the puis. Jacques pursed his lips and pretended to kiss a cat.
And Henri? Henri leaned back in his chair, opened a packet of dehydrated non-dairy creamer into his cup of regular coffee, and laughed.
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