The Ephemeral Swan

Arthur sipped his lukewarm Earl Grey, watching the barista. Not just any barista, mind you, but Gareth, a man who approached coffee-making with the gravitas of a neurosurgeon defusing a particularly unstable device. Today’s masterpiece was a swan, meticulously crafted from foam. It looked less like a swan and more like a startled duck caught mid-sneeze, but Gareth presented it with a flourish usually reserved for a world leader signing a peace treaty.

A woman at the next table, wearing a hat that seemed to be actively trying to escape her head, leaned over. “Isn’t it magnificent?” she whispered, eyes wide with awe.

Arthur paused, considering the question with the solemnity of a philosopher contemplating the meaning of existence. He took another sip. “It certainly… exists,” he finally offered, his voice as flat as the pavement outside.

The woman blinked, apparently expecting a more effusive review. “Just ‘exists’?” she prodded, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

“Indeed,” Arthur confirmed. “And I imagine, like most things, it will eventually cease to do so, particularly once consumed. A fleeting, foamy monument to… something.” He then returned his attention to his own tea, which, while lacking any avian artistry, at least had the decency to be consistently brown.