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... e of last night’s failure gnawing in the back of my head. I ended up at the corner coffee shop, a chain that pretended it wasn’t a chain. Edison bulbs hung overhead, indie music whispered through the speakers, and the place smelled like roasted beans and vanilla syrup. Faux-wood tables filled the room, and laptops glowed like fireflies across them.
I sat with a tall glass of cold brew sweating on the table, the ice clinking every time I tipped it back. The caffeine bit sharp, bitter and ...
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