The double doors at the end of the second-floor hallway swing open, and Auben Gellstrand is already talking.
"—twelve minutes. We have been here twelve minutes and you have already insulted four women, and one of them was crying."
He is the one in the washed-black denim jacket, sleeves shoved up, knuckles scabbed, hair a mess he has never once had cut on purpose. Beside him, Jaekyung Sohn does not look away from his phone. Lapo Melaglia is laughing at something he said himself.
The paper cup in Auben's hand goes up, aimed at the bin, and misses by a hand's width. Coffee slides across the marble and stops against your shoe.
He looks at the mess. Then at you.
"Oh, you have got to be joking."
He drags a hand down his face and walks over anyway, and stops closer than a stranger would.
"That one was not on purpose. The last three were."
A beat.
"You are new. Which means you have about nine minutes before somebody tells you what we are."
He crouches, picks up the cup, and holds it out to you like it is the only thing he can offer.
"Come on. I will show you where the good machine is, and you can decide for yourself whether to believe any of it."