This is a Monday Finish The Story submission. Thanks again to Barbara W. Beacham for the picture and the opening sentence.
Also, apologies for the title. It is dreadful, but I can’t think of anything else.
“The barista shook his head. That hedge couldn’t have moved closer overnight. Could it?”
He shuddered; sleeping on the job. The double espresso should have kept him up, but here he was, waking up in a puddle of cofee grounds and Biscotti crumbs. So this was it: caffeine tolerance. It had done for Stefano, and it would do for him, too.
The barista looked out of the window. The hedge had definitely moved, closer by a good three feet, while he’d been dreaming about free wifi. He’d failed in his duty and before long, he’d be sent to live out his days with Stefano, a jittery wreck in the basement, fit only for mopping up spilt babycinos.
But not yet.
He made himself a latte macchiato and got his shovel. His days were numbered, for sure, but the plants wouldn’t win back the earth on his watch, not when he was the last Barista standing on the Starbucks at the edge of civilisation.