#tatte like latte

[paulpingminho]

[unopenablebox]

how is it possible that there aren’t just like. comfortable cafés with adequate seating in cambridge

[lifewithacupofcoffee]

[invadebrane]

I bet your shop smells like cow shit and baby vomit.

Tatts: Nope it smells of pumpkin spice and herbs though. Pierced: I'm a basic bitch, I love my pumpkin spice lattes, sorry. Tatts: Also where would the cow shit come from? We're in the middle of the fucking city. Also if it smells like any vomit it's Pierced's and he's certainly not a baby. He's a MAN baby. Bit of a difference.

Pierced: Yeah! Hey, wai-

[havnblog]

Maskiner, KI, og verdens viktigste spørsmål

Link to English version

Melding fra 2024: Jeg skreiv dette innlegget våren 2023, da KI-verktøy var veldig nye. Siden da har jeg landa på at jeg ikke ønsker å bruke slike verktøy til å skape bilder. Dette innlegget har to av disse, men siden det er kritisk til disse verktøyene (og forklarer litt av grunnen til at jeg for øyeblikket ikke vil bruke dem), så har jeg latt dem stå.

Først, en forenkla historietime:

I store deler av menneskers eksistens, har teknologi (ofte i form av maskiner eller verktøy) erstattet manuelt arbeid, og ført til økt produktivitet. Trykkpressa erstatta munker som kopierte opp bøker for hånd, telegrafen reduserte behovet for postbud, maskinelle vever førte til færre og færre arbeidstimer per stoffenhet, og fotografering reduserte antall profesjonelle portrett-malere.

Vanligvis erstatter ikke teknologien yrkene den påvirker helt. For eksempel er det fremdeles mulig å få seg en skreddersydd dress - men det er en liten del av klesindustrien, og for det meste forbeholdt de rike. Det gamle blir til nisjer, hobbyer, håndverk og/eller kunst.

Bilde generert av Dall-E.

Her er noen av de positive følgene av dette:

1) Det skapes nye jobber i de påvirkede industriene.

Det trengs folk for å bygge, reparere og operere maskinene. Vi mister portrettmalere, men får fotografer. Et viktig spørsmål er likevel, hvor meningsfulle, sunne og rettferdig betalte er disse nye jobbene?

2) Den økte effektiviteten reduserer kostnaden til varer, og gjør dem tilgjengelige for en større andel av befolkninga.

Motorola DynaTAC 8000X kosta $3.995 (tilsvarende over $10.000 i dag) i 1983, mens Google Pixel 6A koster rundt $350, og kan åpenbart gjøre mye mer. I tillegg til økt komfort og mer tilgang på underholdning, har teknologi også ført til bedre helse og betraklig økning i forventa levealder. (Men reduserte priser har også økt forbruket vårt langt forbi hva som er bærekraftig. Dette dilemmaet fortjener en egen artikkel, som jeg skal skrive seinere!)

Bilder fra Wikipedia Commons og The Verge.

3) Når folk har mer tid (og penger) tilgjengelig, skapes det jobber vi ikke “hadde hatt tid til” ellers.

Det første eksempelet på dette, var gjennom jordbruksrevolusjonen (jordbruk er også teknologi): Tidligere måtte alle være jegere eller samlere, siden én person ikke kunne skaffe mye mer mat enn til å mette seg selv. Etter at vi fikk bønder, derimot, fikk en del av befolkninga mulighet til å gjøre andre ting enn å skaffe mat. Dette førte til spesialisering og yrker, som igjen ga oss mulighet til å holde på med ting som byer og organisert religion.

Sagt på en annen måte, antallet hundefrisører og interiørdesignere korellerer med overskuddet i et samfunn.

Den kunstige revolusjon, og utilsikta konsekvenser

Jeg har ikke noe grunnlag for å si at kunstig intelligens (KI) kommer til å påvirke samfunnet like mye som jordbruksrevolusjonen og den industrielle revolusjon (kanskje er tilgangen på internett er en bedre sammenligning). Men vi kan likevel ta lærdom av disse overgangene.

KI kommer til å bli en stor del av samfunnet - både privat og i arbeidslivet (og i utdanning - som jeg ikke vil berøre her). Og på samme måte som med framveksten av industri, kommer vi til å få utilsikta konvekvenser vi må forholde oss til - også utenom spørsmål knytta til økonomi og etikk. En av de største konsekvensene av den industrielle revolusjonen, er klimaendringer. Først klarte vi ikke å forutse dette, og etterpå har vi vist at vi sliter kraftig med å løse problemet. Vi får håpe at vi ikke gjør samme feilen med KI, uansett hvilke problemer det er snakk om.

1) Før inn mennesker. 2) Få ut produkt.

KI-verktøy for ting som skriving og generering av bilder, har noen spesifikke etikk-utfordringer som de fleste andre disruptive teknologier ikke har hatt. Arbeid og åndsverk til de samme personene teknologien skal erstatte, er essensielt for at teknologien i det hele tatt skal fungere. Microsofts nye versjon av Bing, er et godt eksempel:

Søkemotoren ønsker å gi deg svarene uten at du trenger å gå til andre nettsider. Men den eneste måten den får til dette, er ved å skrape de samme nettsidene for informasjon. (Google har lenge gjort noe lignende, som selvsagt også er galt.)

Vi ser noe lignende med bildegeneratorer (det samme gjelder mange anvendelser av tekstgeneratorer også): Den eneste grunnen til at jeg kan be Stable Diffusion om å generere et bilde a la en spesifikk kunstner, er at modellen har blitt trent på arbeidene til den samme kunstneren jeg nå ikke trenger å hyre. Og ingen spurte kunstneren.

Bilde generert av Dall-E.

"Maskinen" som genererte bildet over, i stilen til Vincent van Gogh, av en maskin som maler et bilde i stilen i van Gogh, hadde ikke eksistert uten at den hadde blitt matet arbeidet hans.

Dagens lover er relevante for rettsakene som pågår nå. Men de er ikke relevante for etikken bak, og heller ikke for de KI-tilpassa lovene vi sårt trenger. Disse lovene må førge for at man ikke kan bruke artisters arbeid uten de tre C-ene:

Consent (samtykke),

Credit (henvisning) og

Compensation (kompensasjon).

Dersom verktøyet ikke er i stand til å gi tilstrekkelig henvisning og kompensasjon, kommer du ikke til å få kunstnerens samtykke. Og i såfall burde det rett og slett ikke eksistere.

Vil KI-verktøy kunne brukes til å utvikle og forbedre kreativt arbeid? Absolutt! Men det endrer ikke at jeg mener måten disse verktøyene er laget på er gal.

Så selv om teknologi har erstatta manuelt arbeid flerfoldige manger, og vil fortsette å gjøre det (også innen kreative yrker), så mener jeg likevel disse verktøyene har noen særegne etiske problemer.

Hvem får glede av økt effektivitet, og hvem glemmer vi?

Det har lenge vært snakk om at KI “tar jobbene våre”, for eksempel rundt lastebilsjåfører. Og selv om det nok kommer til å ta lengre tid enn Elon Musk sier, så forstår jeg godt at flere er redde for jobbene sine.

For selv om teknologi skaper jobber (i tillegg til å fjerne dem) - passer disse nye jobbene til de samme folka som blei erstatta? Vi er vitne til større endringer over kortere tid enn generasjonene før oss. Teknologiutviklinga er rask, mens vi mennesker fortsatt er ganske langsomme kjøttsekker.

Kanskje verdens viktigste spørsmål

Statistikken som sammenligner produktivitet og arbeideres lønn i USA, er en av de mest avslørende statistikkene jeg vet om. Den mørke linja viser produktiviteten, og den lyseblå viser arbeideres lønn. Her er grafen fra 1948 fram til 1979:

Etter hvert som folks arbeid var mer effektivt (og produserte mer), blei også lønna deres forbedra. Og la oss ikke glemme at også arbeidsgiver fikk økt profitt her - de delte rett og slett på økninga.

La oss se på fortsettelsen:

Noe skjedde på starten av 80-tallet, som gjorde at arbeiderene ikke lenger fikk ta del i den økte produktiviteten! (Jeg har i utgangspunktet ikke et problem med at noen blir rike. Men jeg har et problem med hvor rike folk blir, og hvor mye det er på bekostning av planeten og folk som har mindre enn dem.)

Utviklinga til den norske arbeidsuka, er et interessant eksempel som introduserer en ny “valuta” til diskusjonen

I 1915 blei en standard arbeidsuke satt til 54 timer. Siden blei den redusert flere ganger, og sist i 1986 - til 37,5 timer.

Dette fører meg til det store spørsmålet jeg snakka om, som jeg virkelig mener er et av verdens viktigste:

“Hva gjør vi med resultatene av økt produktivitet?”

Vi kan godt si at framskritt og økt produktivitet er uungåelig. Men hvem som får glede av den, er definitivt noe som påvirkes av intensjoner, makt og politikk. Et klassisk argument fra folk som ikke mener det er så viktig å gjøre noe med den store ulikheten i verden, er at levestandarden har økt så mye i verden. Det er selvsagt sant, men den mest relevante sammenligninga er ikke 1923 og 2023 - men vår 2023 og en teoretisk 2023 hvor vi klarte å fordele godene bedre. Historien til arbeiderklassa i USA (og mange andre steder), viser hvordan økt produktivitet helt fint kan gagne de få mye mer enn de mange.

Vi må være et sted i den første kvadranden, samtidig som vi sørger for at alle har nok.

Grunnen til at jeg trakk inn arbeidsuka i Norge, var for å se på en annen måte vi kan høste godene av økt produktivitet: tid.

Nå viser også grafen at det er litt rart at vi plutselig stoppa nedgangen for nesten 40 år sida. Men et annet eksempel på måten det norske samfunnet gir folk tid, er gjennom foreldrepermisjon. Vi får rett og slett et år fri, som de fleste andre ikke får.

Grunnen til at jeg mener spørsmålet er så viktig, er at det berører to av de største utfordringene våre: Klimaendringer og ulikhet. Vi må sørge for at alle får glede av den økte produktiviteten og verdiene som skapes av nye teknologi. Samtidig bør vi ta ut en del av disse verdiene i tid, og ikke kun i velstand, fordi planeten vår ikke takler evig vekst.

Selv om det kanskje kan høres ut som om jeg er veldig negativ til både teknologi generelt og KI spesielt, så er ikke dét tilfelle. Hvis vi ser på smarttelefonen: Det er jo fantastisk at “alle” har tilgang på kommunikasjon, informasjon, underholdning, kameraer og mye mer. Og jeg tror virkelig at det er mulig at KI kan være til stor glede for menneskeheten. Men, vi kan ikke la oss blende og glemme de etiske utfordringene bak, og måten den kan konsentrere enda mer makt og penger hos noen få.

[scholarhect]

guyyyyyyyyyys i walked 11 minutes there & back to the tatte where the normal (not savory) french toast wasn’t sold out so i could get my normal (not savory) french toast (the nearby tatte still had the savory french toast but i don’t like that one) and pay $13.50 plus tax plus tip for it and i got home and got settled and made my bed because i hadn’t earlier and made my coffee because since roomf has an espresso machine i’m never buying a tatte latte again and i fill my water bottle because i hadn’t filled it since last night and i sit down with my water and my coffee and i open the box (labeled french toast) (not labeled savory french toast) and do you know what’s inside it.

[drblogg]

tatte pronounced like latte send post

[recurring-polynya]

Tokusatsu Au where Rukia plays the lead actress in a superhero action show. Renji plays one of the villains and they are The most popular ship in the fandom. Bonus points if Orihime plays the main villain and loves every second of it.

This was the very first prompt I got, and I fell in love. Unfortunately, aside from a brief period of being grotesquely fascinated with Power Rangers as teen, I know almost nothing about tokusatsu. I did as much research as I could and I attempted to watch an episode of Kamen Rider, but my eyes glazed over halfway through. Anyway, please forgive my inaccuracies, I wrote this with my heart.

ao3 | ff.net

🏍    ⚡   🎬

“Uh, looks like we’re almost out of time,” the panel moderator for “High-Spirited Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe!: A Sneak Peak at Season 5” declared, “but would you be willing to take just a few audience questions?”

Head Screenwriter Kurosaki Ichigo glanced at Leading Actress Kuchiki Rukia out of the corner of his eye, and she gave a tiny nod.

“Yeah, sure!” he replied.

There was already a young woman waiting at the microphone, practically vibrating with anxiety. She was wearing a t-shirt that had ZabiTo4Ever!! handwritten in marker on it. Rukia knew, deep down in her bones, what the question was going to be.

“Hi, yes, hello, big fan of your work! My question is: are Tomoe and Zabimaru going to kiss this season?”

“No,” Rukia started to say.

“As you probably know,” Ichigo said loudly on top of her, “the show holds close to the core plot points of Kuna-sensei’s manga, although, because of her minimalist style, we do expand a lot of the dialogue and filler scenes. She has said in several interviews that High-Spirited Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe! is not a romance manga, so the odds of Tomoe and Zabimaru ever kissing on screen are very, very low.”

The young woman stared at Ichigo grumpily. “Does this also count Zabimaru’s secret college student identity, Satonako Takeru?”

Ichigo stared back at her. “Yes. It does.”

The next question came from a person wearing a full suit of HellKnight’s plasma armor made out of overlapping plates of cardboard. Rukia was kind of impressed by it. She wondered if he could sit down.

“Hi, Kurosaki-sensei, I am a huge fan of your work,” a voice emanated from deep within the cardboard. “I was wondering if you are influenced at all by fanworks, and if Episode 73: Pride is on the Line!: The Bake Sale Must Go On! was based in any way on the classic fanfiction, ‘Tell Me All Your Best Lies’? It’s the top story by kudos in the ZabiTo tag, which I might point out is the most popular shipping category on AO3.”

Ichigo cleared his throat gently. “I am contractually not allowed to read fanfiction, although I do enjoy fanart! There are some incredibly talented artists in the fandom, although for some reason, no one ever wants to draw pictures of Lead Screenwriters.”

“I’ll draw you, sleeping on the set like you always do,” Rukia offered, and that got a pretty big laugh. Rukia’s Tumblr of behind-the-scenes doodle comics was beloved among the fandom.

The next question was from a nonbinary person wearing a big poufy skirt and a hairstyle that would make their make-up and hair guru, Yumichika, sit up and take notice. “Hi, this is a question for Kuchiki-san! If the show is going to roughly keep pace with the manga, as it has done up until now, you should be shooting the storyline where Tomoe and Queen Bloodbuzz switch bodies later this year. I was wondering if you could comment on how you feel about filming that storyline?”

Finally! A good one! “Yes!” Rukia nodded eagerly. “I don’t usually like to speak for my fellow cast members, but Orihime and I are beyond excited about playing each other. We’ve been studying each other’s mannerisms and practicing already! Does anyone want to hear my Queen Bloodbuzz cackle?” She wagged her eyebrows as the audience cheered. “Here goes-- bwaHaHaHaHAHAHAHAAHAAAHAAAAAAAA!”

“Bonechilling,” Ichigo commented dryly as the audience erupted.

“Amazing, Kuchiki-san!” the moderator exclaimed. “I think there is time for one more, but this will be the last question!”

A tall girl in a full set of High-Spirited Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe motorcycle leathers stepped to the microphone. She was holding a notebook. “Hello!” she warbled. “In a 2020 interview with the Psychics and Sidekicks podcast, Abarai Renji was asked about his opinion on ZabiTo as a ship, and he replied,” she consulted her notebook, “‘Tomoe is such a cool lady and talented Battle Clairvoyant, and she always follows her heart and stays true to herself. I think that Zabimaru can’t help but be impressed with her, even though they’re enemies, and I always try to roll that into our on-screen interactions.’ I know that in the past you’ve refused to comment on the ship, but I was wondering if you had any thoughts on, y’know, his thoughts?”

“Well, he’s correct, of course, Tomoe is very cool and admirable,” Rukia replied, which drew a few laughs, although it seemed like the audience was leaning forward in anticipation of her answer. “Like I said, I don’t like to speak for other cast members. I’ll be doing a big cast panel with Abarai and Inoue and Matsumoto and Ukitake tomorrow afternoon, and I hope you all can make it! See you then!”

The moderator thanked them enthusiastically, and then Ichigo and Rukia slipped out the back guest entrance.

“Evasive as always, Kuchiki,” Ichigo teased.

“Whatever,” Rukia sniffed. “The higher ups say we’re not supposed to comment on stuff like that, and I was not commenting. By the way, how many secret fanfic accounts are you up to? Four?”

“It’s only three!” Ichigo paused. “I wrote that fanfic the guy brought up.”

“Of course you did,” Rukia sighed. “I do blame you personally for the popularity of the damn ship.”

“Me? Blame Kuna for making up two such sexy, emotionally constipated dumbasses!” Ichigo defended.

“Also, it’s not Ichigo’s fault that you and Abarai have insane chemistry.”

Rukia spun around, grinning. “Orihime!”

Rukia’s two co-stars, Inoue Orihime and Abarai Renji, the portrayers of Tomoe’s demonic archnemeses, stood in the hallway behind them.

“We sat in on your panel!” Orihime beamed. “You two were brilliant!”

“Don’t worry,” Renji added. “We were incognito.”

“Incognito” was relative, Rukia supposed, when you were at Tokyo’s biggest tokusatsu

convention.

Orihime was wearing a Zabimaru outfit so detailed that she probably could have won a prize down at the cosplay hall. She had the gravity-defying ponytail, the eyeliner, the insane widow's peak (complete with forehead tatts), the fangs, the motorcycle boots. The paper mache snake skull helmet was a little lopsided, but it was charming. She had her top zipped a little higher than canon, but that was forgivable, too.

Renji had taken the opposite tack of looking as much like a normal person-- or at least a normal Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe superfan-- as possible. Relaxed fit jeans and an oversized hoodie de-emphasized his ultra-fit physique. He was wearing a t-shirt with a very dramatic rendering of Orihime that said “Queen Bloodbuzz can step on me!” and a ball cap with the logo of Seireitei University, the fictional college Tomoe and Takeru attended.

“You think you’re in disguise,” Rukia pointed out, “but there are thousands of teen girls in this place with entire Tumblrs dedicated to your stupid face when you’re out of costume.”

Renji cocked an eyebrow at her. “You underestimate me, Rukia. I have bought… new sunglasses.” With a flourish, he whipped out a pair of the dorkiest wayfarers she’d ever seen, and flipped them onto his face. “I’ve disappeared! Who am I? Where am I?”

“You look really great, Orihime,” Ichigo said, his cheeks coloring a little bit. “Did you get Uryuu or Yumichika to help you with that costume?” In his continuing theme of doing things he wasn’t supposed to, Ichigo had finally started dating Orihime on the downlow around the time they finished up filming last season. It had done absolutely nothing for how shy he still got around her. They were, in Rukia’s opinion, cute as hell.

“Oh, no, that would be cheating!” Orihime replied, wagging a finger at him. “Well…maybe I did cheat, just a tiny bit. Renji helped me make the helmet and he held up references for me while I was painting on the tattoos.”

“Only the forehead ones,” Renji quickly added.

“He wouldn’t even offer feedback on my booby tattoos!” Orihime frowned. She leaned forward. “Rukia, how do they look?”

Ichigo turned even redder.

“Perfect, as in all you do!” Rukia replied loftily.

“What’s everyone got coming up next?” Renji asked. “I was thinking of slipping out and trying to pick up some real coffee.”

“I’m judging a villainess-themed cosplay competition,” Orihime chirped. “But I’m dying for a blueberry caramel iced latte. Renji, my henchman, pleeeeease!”

“Of course, my liege,” Renji replied in his Zabimaru voice.

It’s not like it had been a hard decision to accept the role of the motorcycle-riding, badass heroine of one of the most popular manga of the last decade, but it had turned out to be one of the best decisions of Rukia’s life. not just her career. Aside from a few of the money-obsessed executives, she liked nearly everyone in the cast and crew, but the fact that the fact that the ruthless, homicidal, literally Hell-spawned villains of the show were played by the two sweetest marshmallow people she had ever met just took the cake. Renji and Orihime had already known each other from some voicework they had done previously, and their excitement at working together on a live-action project had infected the entire cast from the start. Rukia wasn’t sure, but she strongly suspected that Renji was the one who had hyped Orihime up to ask Ichigo out.

“I have a writers’ workshop I’m moderating this afternoon, and I wanted to review the writing samples people sent in,” Ichigo said, scratching the back of his head. “I’d love to stop by that cosplay contest, though, at least for a few minutes.”

“You’ll be needing caffeine, too, then, eh?” Renji offered. “Hot, black, and in the largest cup they make, as usual?”

“Ugh, you’re the best,” Ichigo groaned. “You wanna power-up this season? Costume update? You know what? Maybe I’ll just have you defeat Tomoe once and for all, no one likes her anyway.”

“C’mon, you know I’m the world’s number one Tomoe simp, don’t do that!” Renji laughed.

Rukia rolled her eyes. “I’m free and I could use some fresh air. Besides, it’s going to take all your dumb muscles just to carry Kurosaki’s vat of coffee back here.”

“Cool!” Renji proclaimed. “We’ll be back soon!”

“Thanks, Renjiiiii!” Orihime waved.

“You need to stop off and put on a disguise?” Renji asked.

“No point in it, I always get recognized,” Rukia sighed, pulling her sunglasses out of her purse anyway.

“Here,” Renji said, plunking his hat on her head. “Maybe this will help.”

“Thanks,” Rukia replied, and then did a double take. “Whaaaaaat is on your head?”

“Shut up!” Renji laughed. He usually shaved his head when they were filming, because it made it easier to deal with the make-up and wigs, but since they were between seasons, he’d grown his hair out into a short, tousled mop of reddish-brown waves. He looked, for the lack of a better word, dreamy. “I shot a movie over the summer, and they wanted me to look softer.”

Rukia looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “You didn’t tell me you were doing a movie!”

“Oh, it was just a little indy romcom thing. I wasn’t sure it was gonna pan out, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You were in a romcom? You’re kidding me!” They ducked out of a side door of the convention center into the bright sunshine.

“Yeah, it’s about a guy who goes to the gym to try to get ripped to impress a girl, and makes friends with me, this nice, already ripped dude who gives him lifting tips and encourages him a bunch. By the end of the movie, it turns out we have crushes on each other.”

“Oh, no, that sounds really cute, actually!”

“It was written by a woman who graduated from one of Ichigo’s writing workshops. The script was really snappy and Ichigo thought having someone like me as the gym guy would give it just a bit of campy cachet. You know what a good sense he’s got for stuff like that.”

“That was cool of you to go out on a limb a little,” Rukia replied.

Renji rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d been wanting to try something like that for a while, actually.”

Rukia blinked. “You aren’t… you aren’t thinking of leaving the show, are you?”

“Huh? No. No! No, the show means the world to me, I would never. But… it’s not gonna run forever, y’know?”

“I would have guessed you’d want to be a big action star or something!” Rukia said, throwing a few air punches. “That’s my dream!”

Renji stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Yeah, that’s what I thought I wanted when I first got into acting. I’d read the Tomoe manga, and I thought playing Zabimaru would be a good jumping-off point, besides just being a cool character overall.”

“Is that… not true?” Rukia frowned.

“Oh, I mean, I guess so! I didn’t really know about the fandom, though and… to be honest, I’m kinda into the idea that there are all these fans who think I’m complex and redeemable?”

Rukia regarded him out of the corner of her eye. “They just want to fix you.”

“Maybe! Ichigo made me read this one fanfic that was eight thousand words of the reader getting sick and Zabimaru making them soup? And feeding them the soup? I still haven’t decided how I feel about it.”

“How does he have time to find these things? Does he even sleep?”

“Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to be well-rounded and it was fun. I’m still mostly an action guy, but I wouldn’t mind doin’ something with a romantic subplot. A period drama or something like that. I look pretty good in hakama, you know.”

“I bet you do,” Rukia laughed. She squinted at him, but his expression was unreadable behind the shades. Renji didn’t have the classic leading man looks, not like her ridiculously famous older brother, but she could definitely see him as the best friend, the B-plot romance, with his cute, messy hair and that big doofy grin.

“By the way, I’m sorry you had to field that question about me spilling my romantic sensibilities on that podcast.”

Rukia laughed. “You didn’t even answer the question, either! These people are relentless!”

Renji stopped at a street corner and peered down the various possible directions they could go. “Which way feels like it might have a coffee shop?”

“You didn’t have one in mind before we left? I thought you knew where we were going!”

“Nah, I just like to go out and see what there is.”

“I can look up a map,” Rukia said, reaching in her bag for her phone.

“Let’s just go this way,” Renji said, stepping out into the street in the direction that had the WALK light. Rukia sighed and had to scramble to catch up with him.

“So, what do you think about it?”

“Huh?” Rukia asked. “Think about what?”

“Our ship. ZabiTo.”

“I can’t believe you just said that word out loud. And you know we’re not supposed to give our opinion on it!”

“Aw, c’mon, we’re not supposed to give public statements on our opinions. I don’t think there’s any harm in talking between ourselves. We’re in disguise, even.”

“‘Disguise’,” Rukia sniffed.

“You don’t like it, I can tell.”

“He’s a bad guy! Everyone always talks about chemistry, and that may be true, but I just don’t think that Tomoe could ever get over his acts of violence and cruelty.”

“Queen Bloodbuzz is cruel. Zabimaru is not cruel.”

“Okay, that’s fair, but still. He’s kidnapped just about all of Tomoe’s friends and or turned them into monsters at one time or another. He’s always setting Karakura Town on fire or flooding it with magic lizard goo. He ruined the sports festival.”

“Maybe the sports festival deserved to be ruined,” Renji muttered under his breath.

“Okay, you’ve got a point on that one,” Rukia admitted.

“It’s really clear though, that he’s got some agenda beyond just simping for Queen Bloodbuzz--”

“The simping for Queen Bloodbuzz is the most relatable thing about him, to be honest.”

“Granted. But, what if he’s got a good reason for everything he does, actually? What if he’s doing all of this against his own moral code as a means of infiltrating Hell itself and getting himself into a position of trust so that he can bring down the Lords of Hell from the inside?”

Rukia slipped her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose. “Does Kuna give you Zabimaru spoilers?” The reclusive creator High-Spirited Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe! was only barely involved with the television show, but she did privately meet with each of the cast members about once a year. Most of Rukia’s meetings consisted of Kuna giving her constructive criticism on her battle poses.

“No, mostly we practice sneering,” Renji replied. “But I gotta play the guy, so I gotta think about this, you know, what motivates him? I mean, you’re probably right, it would never work out. But unlike Tomoe, whose principles would call for her to ignore any attraction she has to him, Zabimaru has the freedom to pine for her, perhaps because his love is futile and he doesn’t think he deserves it anyway.”

“That’s kinda dark, dude,” Rukia frowned.

“Yes, well, that is the kind of character acting that netted me the 2019 Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Best Villain Award, Foreign Language Category.”

“That’s literally what’s going through your head when you’re shouting that if I can’t make some sick motorcycle jump, you’ll turn all my friends into stuffed animal versions of themselves?”

“No, of course not! At those times I’m thinking about how much I love my job. OH! and what is that I see!” Renji struck an extremely Zabimaru pose. “A MISTER DONUT!”

“My hero!” Rukia exclaimed, unable to resist an opportunity to shout dramatically. “I’m sorry I doubted you!”

“I think we should get some donuts, too. Orihime loves donuts,” Renji declared.

“Oh, for sure,” Rukia agreed. She was thoughtful for a moment. It would be easy to move on to a different subject, the subject being donuts, but she wasn’t happy with leaving the last conversation hanging. “Look, Renji, just because I don’t like the dumb ship, you know that’s not a reflection on you, right?”

“Huh?” Renji replied. “You mean you don’t mind if I like it?”

“Well… I mean, I don’t, I guess, but what I really meant was, er… we joke a lot, but Tomoe and Zabimaru are just parts, y’know? Just because I don’t think Zabimaru isn’t good boyfriend material doesn’t mean I…” Rukia trailed off, suddenly realizing what she was saying. “Um. What I mean is. You’re very nice and probably one of my favorite people I’ve ever worked with and if someone I knew wanted to ask you out, I would definitely encourage them to, A+ guy, I’d say, probably would make a great boyfriend.”

Renji pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and regarded her for a long moment. “For the record, Kuchiki, I think that both you and Tomoe would make excellent girlfriend material.” While Rukia stood there and gaped like a fish, he turned and pushed open the door to the coffee shop. “Ichigo likes crullers and Orihime always wants the most colorful thing they’ve got. Do you know what you want?”

“I need to think about it,” Rukia squeaked. She wasn’t talking about donuts.

🏍    ⚡   🎬 

Bonus: Here are my notes from when I was making up the show. I hope this wasn’t too confusing!

High-Spirited Battle Clairvoyant Tomoe!

based on a manga by reclusive mangaka Kuna Mashiro

Head Screenwriter: Kurosaki Ichigo

🌟 Starring: 🌟

Kuchiki Rukia as Yukimura Tomoe, a spunky college student who can see ghosts and fights demons from Hell! She rides a motorcycle!

Inoue Orihime as Queen Bloodbuzz, a Lady of Hell, who seeks to gather energy from the Living Realm so that she can become the Supreme Ruler of Hell. Very aesthetic. Much bees.

Abarai Renji as Zabimaru, Queen Bloodbuzz’s ruthless henchman. He leads a double life as fierce-looking, but gentle-hearted college student Satonaka Takeru! What is his long game??

[mamabearcatfanfics]

More Than Words - One

“Please, please, please, please, please Kagome!”

She looked up from her laptop to roll her eyes at the dark haired man leaning over her desk, his violet eyes beseeching, hands together as if in prayer.

“You would think by now Miroku, that you of all people would know that when a lady says no, she means no”, she said dryly, dropping her attention back to the computer screen in front of her. It was boring work, but if everything wasn’t just so, the tender documents could be rejected, and she really didn’t want to open that can of worms with her project manager.

“But Kagome”, he continued pleading. “She’s amazing, gorgeous, an angel!” His eyes misted over as he gazed off into the middle distance. “I think it’s her. I think I’ve finally found the love of my life.” Kagome snorted, and his eyes flicked back to hers. “You don’t believe me?” he said with a wounded expression.

“Miroku”, Kagome sighed, “you probably spoke to her for a maximum of what, two minutes, tops? And that was to order coffee. How is this girl any different from the temp secretary you took out on a date after the office Christmas party three weeks ago? Or that girl you abandoned me for last Friday night when we went out to karaoke? I’m not going to hound some poor woman minding her own business into giving you her number just because you have the unfortunate habit of falling for every pretty face you see!”

Miroku shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. This was different. When my fingers touched hers, it was, like, I don’t know, a spiritual connection.” He sighed, leaning against Kagome’s desk, his hand over his heart. “She owns me, body and soul.”

“Oh my god Miroku,” Kagome chortled, pushing his hip off her desk. “If you were any cheesier I’d need to run out and buy wine and crackers! You do realise that you sound like someone out of one of those trashy romance movies on daytime TV? Next you’ll be writing sonnets and saying you were struck by Cupid’s arrow.” She got up from her desk to move over to the filing cabinet, rifling through the files. “I still don’t see why I need to be involved anyway - just ask her for her number herself if you’re so desperate!”

Miroku sighed, hanging his head despondently. “I’ve been banned. By her guard dog.” Kagome looked at him questioningly. “The barista.”

“You got banned from a café by the barista? What on earth did you do!?” She held up her hands, the file in them covering her view of Miroku as he opened his mouth to explain. “No, don’t tell me, on second thoughts, I don’t want to know!”

“Kagome, I’m begging you! Just talk to her. If she doesn’t want to give her number to me, I’ll admit defeat. I just need to know! What if I did all your filing for the next week?”

Kagome shook her head. “No way! I’ve only just got all my files back in order from when you meddled with my stuff when I was on leave.”

“I’ll walk your dog.”

“I have a cat.”

“I’ll do your tax return for you.”

“I’d like to stay out of prison, thanks very much.”

“I’ll, I’ll… “ Miroku looked around the office, as if searching for inspiration, his eyes alighting on Kagome’s much loved pink coffee cup, sitting empty and forlorn on her desk. “I’ll buy you coffee for the next month!”

Kagome stared him. “You’re offering to buy me coffee for a whole month?” He nodded. “And this is whether she gives me her number or not?” Miroku nodded again. Kagome bumped the filing cabinet drawer shut with her hip, then placed the folders on her desk, turning back to him with a gleeful expression on her face.

Miroku’s face fell when he realised exactly how much that this might cost him in monetary terms. Kagome loved her coffee; she was rarely seen without her favourite coffee mug in her hand. And she did a lot of overtime, often working back late at the office, weekends too when a tender was due.

Kagome grinned even wider and slapped him on the shoulder. “Miroku, my lovestruck friend, you’ve got yourself a deal!”

 ☕💘☕

 Kagome walked towards the tiny hole in the wall coffee shop a few blocks away from the office. It was literally only a door and a window wide, the exterior painted in matte black, with a white awning shading the customers waiting outside in the hot Australian summer sun. The business name adorned the glass window, a simple red circle with black text in a strong block font - Black Dog Coffee.

There was a line of people heading out the door waiting patiently, some chatting quietly, but most looking down at their phones. As she got further forward in the line, she was amused to notice that everyone followed the same pattern – a step towards the woman taking orders, stating their name and order and paying, then two steps to the left while they waited for their coffee. The woman at the cash register didn’t take another order until the first one had been filled, yet no one complained. That was kind of odd, but the line was moving fairly swiftly, so she guessed it worked, even though it wasn’t how cafés usually took their coffee orders. It was hard to see what was going on from her position in the line, stuck behind a tall guy in a business suit. She decided to look up reviews for the coffee shop online while she was waiting.

‘This coffee is the absolute bomb, but don’t piss off the barista!’

‘Was recommended to me by a friend. Coffee is amazing.’

‘Kinda weird. They only sell coffee, roast their own beans I think. The barista is something else!’

‘Would wait in line all day for this coffee!!’

‘Worst experience ever. Got BANNED because I tried to order more than five things. And they have no food, just coffee. WTF! Pretty sure the barista was in the yakuza – that guy has tatts for days! 0/10 would recommend.’

‘Follow the ordering protocol and you’ll be sweet – best coffee in the downtown financial district.’

‘OMG – best coffee EVER! I’m now a daily customer.’

Hmmm. She tried to peer around the tall guy in front of her, but she couldn’t see anything; the afternoon sun was reflecting off the glass covered office building nearby, getting in her eyes and making her squint. She fanned her face with her hand. Man it was hot. You could fry an egg out here on the cement. She hoped the coffee was worth the freckles she was probably getting on her nose right now. The tall guy stepped forward to make his order, and she caught a glimpse of the woman behind the cash register.  

Long glossy brown hair with thick bangs, and a bright smile. Her brown eyes, highlighted by bright pink eyeshadow, sparkled with warmth; she was giving her total attention to the current person she was engaging with. She wasn’t much taller than Kagome herself and the tight black t-shirt she was wearing with the name Sango embroidered on the pocket accentuated her generous curves.

Kagome sighed. Miroku was nothing if not predictable – he loved curvy ladies. But how was she going to ask for this woman’s number without causing a disruption – everyone seemed to be on board with the ordering system, and if the coffee was as good as the reviews promised there was no way she was going to get herself banned from coming back.

She glanced down to the time on her phone, and then to the opening hours printed on the tiny shop window. It was almost closing time. Maybe if she hung back for a little while and caught the woman after they’d shut up shop? She groaned internally, trying not to think of the work still waiting for her on her desk. She should have held out for two months of coffee.

The tall man stepped to the side. Crap, she needed to order.

“Good afternoon ma’am. What would you like?” The woman’s smile was wide and welcoming.

“Uh, a large latte please, no sugar”, Kagome said, holding up her credit card ready to tap payment.

“Name please?”

“Kagome. That’s K – A…”

“That’s okay, I know how to spell it.” Kagome watched with interest as the woman wrote her name on the coffee lid in curving characters. Was that hirigana? She vaguely recognised it was her name being written from the two terms of Japanese she did in high school. A grunt came from her left, and she realised with a little start that she was meant to move to one side.

She stood in front of the gleaming commercial espresso machine, eyes closing as she savoured the rich coffee aroma. It smelt amazing, rich and full. Not burnt. It was a little hard to see the barista; her view was blocked by towers of takeaway coffee cups in various sizes. But those reviews that mentioned him had made her curious now. She stepped to the side a little more. Ah, there he was.

He was taller than her - she guessed she’d come up to just above his shoulder, but then she wasn’t exactly tall herself at 5’2”. He had long dark hair, looped back in a low ponytail, with a choppy fringe and slightly longer forelocks  on either side of his face, tanned skin that was complemented by the white collarless t-shirt he wore under a denim apron. His expression as he looked downward to make the coffee was stern, but she didn’t see what he had to be so grumpy about. Maybe he was just hot? Maybe he just took his job very seriously? He moved out from behind the coffee machine and her eyes widened at the sight of his forearms, revealed by the shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. They were covered in tattoos from the wrist; dark sleeves of swirling black water flowing up his arms, broken only by pink and red cherry blossoms, with a hint of green and yellow. Then he looked up.

His eyes. They were hazel, for want of a better description, but such a light hazel that they almost looked golden. With the late afternoon sun behind her, lighting his face, they almost sparkled like citrine quartz. He placed the lid on her coffee, then set it down in front of her.

“Kagome.”

He’d pronounced her name right. Ka-goh-meh. She was so used to the way most Australians butchered her Japanese name, a way for her parents to honour her Japanese grandfather, that she was immune to its mispronunciation, but he’d said it just right. Just. Right. His voice was deep and a little husky. He made that small grunting noise in the back of his throat again, his strong dark brows lowering a little, and she realised in embarrassment that she was staring at him.

“Uh, yes, I’m sorry, yeah that’s me! I’m Kagome.” Idiot. Of course he knew that, it’s not like there was anyone else standing right in front of him waiting! She reached out for her coffee where he’d placed it on the edge of the counter, and then backed away, pink cheeked, as another person stepped to the side to wait for their coffee.

She moved to stand in front of the shop next door, taking out her phone for something to do while she waited for closing time, slowly sipping her coffee, which was glorious by the way. But she couldn’t give herself over fully to her enjoyment of the taste, unable to control her wandering eyes.

‘Oh my god, he’s gorgeous! I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that colour before. And that’s so much ink on his arms - that must have hurt like a bitch! I never would have picked that a guy would get cherry blossom sleeves, but they don’t look girly on him at all - the exact opposite really. I wonder if they go all the way up his arms? God, now I’m imagining him with his shirt off - bad girl, Kagome! Maybe the cherry blossoms are a cultural thing? I think he’s Japanese, and I’m pretty sure that’s my name in hirigana on the coffee lid, but I don’t want to make an assumption just based on that and his looks. I wonder what he’s thinking about? He doesn’t look unhappy or angry exactly, just… determined? Maybe he just has resting bitch face.’ She snorted a little at that thought, then sighed. ‘His movements are so graceful and fluid, it’s like watching someone do tai chi or something. Oh, he has such nice hands - strong fingers. I could watch him make coffee aaaaall day.’

She gazed dreamily, sipping at her coffee slowly, the phone in her hand forgotten. Golden eyes suddenly met hers, one eyebrow raised in a puzzled expression. ‘Oh shit, he’s looking this way. He’s noticed that I’m looking at him. Abort! Abort! Oh fuck… This is all your fault Miroku!’

She turned tail and fled, almost running back to the office. The reviews had been right. The hot coffee was amazing, but the hot barista? Yeah, he was definitely something else. She knew she would be back first thing in the morning to get another coffee. And it wasn’t just because the coffee was amazing and that he was beautiful to look at. There was something about him. She wanted to get to know him better.

Miroku was waiting for her out the front of their office building. “So, did you get it?” he asked eagerly.

“What?”

“Did you get her number. Sango’s number?”

“Uh…” Shit. She’d been so flustered when he had suddenly looked up and met her gaze that she’d turned tail and fled without remembering why she was waiting there in the first place. Damn. Heat washed across her cheeks, and she flicked her gaze away from Miroku’s.

“Our calm and collected Kagome blushing? Oh, there must be a good story behind this – do tell!”

“No story. You’ve ordered coffee from there before – I didn’t want to do anything to upset the system and get banned like you did! There just wasn’t an opportunity today – I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Miroku poked her in the ribs. “But surely that wouldn’t make you blush Kags! C’mon, spill.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” she spluttered.

Suddenly Miroku burst out laughing. “Oh ho ho, I get it. You were so busy perving at the guard dog making the coffee that you forgot what you were there for.”

“Shut. Up.”

Miroku grinned at her. “Aw, little Kagome finally got a crush on someone. Were you struck by Cupid’s arrow?” he teased, throwing the phrase she’d used before back at her with a note of triumph in his voice. Kagome squirmed under his knowing gaze, and he chuckled. “Looks like Cupid’s been pretty busy with his arrows around that coffee shop, huh?”

Kagome made a growling noise in the back of her throat, then the corners of her lips curled up in a knowing smile. She blinked at him innocently, raising her takeaway cup.

“You may be right Miroku. You may be right. And I’m thinking the best way to get to know him will be to buy coffee. Lots of coffee. I hope you’re ready to pay up, buddy!” She sipped her coffee and patted him on his suddenly slumping shoulders as she walked past him into the foyer of the building and back to her desk full of filing, savouring every last drop.

  ☕💘☕

 Inuyasha pondered as he polished the already gleaming coffee maker. Sango had just left for the day, after balancing the till, and he was doing a final clean up, ensuring everything would be ready for 7am opening.

That girl. Kagome. She’d been staring at him. Usually that made him feel intensely uncomfortable. Growing up in an orphanage had internalised that being stared at was a bad thing, because pain caused by kids much larger and stronger than him usually followed close behind. That was until he’d been there so long that he was the large and strong one, handing out punches to anyone picking on the tiny ones. But he hadn’t got that uncomfortable feeling from her when she’d stared.

He knew he was considered attractive by some people. But her looking at him hadn’t given him that slimy creepy feeling that being ogled purely for looks gave him either. She had looked at him like he was a puzzle she wanted to work out.

He tried to picture her in his mind’s eye, but all he really remembered was dark shining hair like a corvid’s wing, and very blue eyes. She’d been small too, very petite. He rolled her name around in his head, as it tugged on a memory, and he suddenly thought of the rhyming game from his childhood about a bird caught in a cage. It was fitting – her mannerisms reminded him of a little bird - a wren, with bright inquisitive eyes. And when he’d looked up at her and caught her staring, she’d flapped her wings in fright and flown away. He chuckled. He hoped she wasn’t caught in a cage of some sort. No one deserved that.

He shut off the lights to the tiny shop, and walked into the studio behind it, flopping down on his bed with his laptop, ready to spend another evening struggling through his online English class. A little orange fluffball of a kitten jumped on to his lap, trying to sit on the keys, and he pushed it off.

“Shippou! Dame!”

The kitten settled down next to his thigh, snuggling against him and purring, and he turned his attention back to the screen. It was hard, learning a language this way, but he was determined. He had escaped his own cage, and he was never going back.

☕💘☕

PART TWO

[stretchjournalemerson]

We Are, We Aren't

By Connor Gibson

02:51 PM

Dirty piles of slush litter the ground of the Public Garden. The ice on the pond is melting in the sun. Kids scoop up the last traces of snow, melted and hardened and melted into chunks of ice, to throw at each other. The Garden is full of people, tourists and natives alike taking advantage of the 42-degree weather— which, for a Boston February, is “warm”. I’m bundled in my wool coat and hat; others’ Patriots tees show under unzipped hoodies. The blindingly white neck of my Tatte shirt peeks out above my scarf. As always, I’m running early, but I speed-walk anyway.

Google tells me that Back Bay, the neighborhood home to the Tatte where I work, is one of the wealthiest places in the Boston area. It tells me that the bay on which the neighborhood sits was drained in the 1800s, uncovering foul-smelling fens and swamps. Developers poured cement on top of it and chopped it up into rectangles. There’s something there, some cute metaphor comparing designer stores atop a concrete-covered swamp to glossing over the issue of gentrification in favor of a new Sweetgreen.

I’ll write about that later, I think. I exit the Garden at Newbury and Arlington and cross the street. A high-cheekboned model, face blown up to the size of my entire body, peers down at me from the Burberry store window. Her eyelashes are lowered seductively under her huge sunglasses. Excuse me, I hear in my head. A posh British accent. Excuse me, why are you looking at me? I look away.

Letters barrage me as I turn onto Boylston. MK MK MK MK on clutches and purses. Chanel on a storefront. HOMELESS VETERAN PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS, scrawled on torn cardboard with a marker.

I walk into Tatte and take off my coat. VIBE CHECKER blares at me from the temperature gun, neon pink Sharpie on white.

Sarah, the mid manager, points the VIBE CHECKER at my forehead.

How’s my vibe? I ask.

She chuckles. Fine. Symptoms?

All of ‘em, at once.

Go grab an apron and we can talk about the new dinner menu. Her sweatshirt says BREAKFAST SANDWICH. I know that our BREAKFAST SANDWICH sweatshirts retail for $35. I wonder which Michael Kors clutch goes best with a BREAKFAST SANDWICH sweatshirt.

I step into Tatte Connor with his pristine white shirt and bandana and sickly sweet voice— a voice both Connor and not Connor, a voice that is mine and isn’t. Tatte Connor doesn’t create witty metaphors about systemic problems, he fires off meaningless platitudes: I like your outfit, cold out there, isn’t it? I know, I don’t know how I don’t eat them all. He grabs an apron, clocks in, and listens intently as Sarah explains chraimeh sauce.

03:14 PM

I’m at the register today, standing in one place for over five hours. It means hi, welcome in! to everyone who enters. It means my voice will stay in its customer service pitch for long after I leave, and when I walk around a person at Target while picking up yogurt that night, I will automatically announce BEHIND! and scare the shit out of them.

A woman walks in, several shopping bags swinging from her arms. Hi, welcome in! She nods acknowledgement. She wants a medium latte, almond milk and vanilla. We only have a small and a large. She asks to see the large. She’s fine with a large.

I take her phone number. All right! Will that be all for you? And would you like to leave a tip today?

She would not. She announces this so happily that I’m forced to match her tone. All right! I hope it sounds authentic. She takes her card.

I do NOT need a receipt, she proclaims, and walks out the door, bags bumping against the doorframe. The bags are massive, stiff, and glossy. They look expensive, down to the heavy serif font. My stained apron feels incredibly out of place. I wonder if it would be stupid to go get a new apron.

Caleb, the barista, waves his hand. He’s made my drink— it’s on the bar. I nod and ring up three more people before I get enough of a break to go grab it. He’s written my name on the cup and drawn little hearts for the O’s. My heart swells. I take half a sip, and then someone else walks in the door. Hi, welcome in!

03:32 PM

It’s a full-on late-lunch rush. The morning shift has just left, and the crowd hits us in the middle of a change. I’ve been moved off register and over to expo, where I’m doing three people’s jobs at once. Picking up? Todd? Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes? Hi, Doordash? Do you need a menu? Take care! Thank you so much. Hi, welcome in!

A couple enters. They wear matching black puffy jackets with faux fur hoods and matching black sunglasses, similar in size and shape to the glasses on the Burberry model. They don’t remove their hoods or their sunglasses when they step inside. Picking up? Favio? I hand them their drinks. They are not happy.

You should be more thoughtful of your customers, I am told. It’s cold outside, and you shouldn’t keep people waiting. You need to be thinking about that.

I’m so sorry, sir.

I am reprimanded.

You need to move faster,

I’m sorry, sir. We’re doing our best.

I am told that maybe, that is not good enough, eh? And Favio and his girlfriend leave.

Have a good one! Take care! I imagine labels on their backs, as bold and shiny as the ones on their jackets and sunglasses: ASSHOLES.

03:42 PM

I am back on the register. The late-lunch rush has died down. In eighteen minutes, dinner will open up, and we’ll get slammed again— but for now I get to rest. I stack pistachio croissants in a delicate, buttery pyramid, coating my gloves with green dust and oil. Once I’m pretty sure they won’t fall, I head back to the register to count my tips.

Most people tip, but off-handedly, trying not to sound eager or generous. Sure, throw a dollar on there— “there” being a $12 sandwich. I wonder what kind of life they lead where dollars are something they throw. I notice that those thrown dollars never fall into the HOMELESS VETERAN’s plastic cup.

05:08 PM

An older woman enters and beelines for the Grab-and-Go case. She wears a brightly patterned scarf over her hair and carries an enormous H&M bag, full to bursting. She swings the bag onto one shoulder and holds up a small container of chicken salad. How much is it?, she asks. Maybe six or seven dollars, I reply.

She is surprised that I don’t know the exact price. She asks, don’t you work here? She asks, again, how much it is.

Give me one minute to check. It is seven dollars.

She complains that nobody here ever knows anything. She explains to me that it’s just one item, and you should know how much it costs. She tells me, I asked a girl a similar question, just the other day, and she didn’t know either.

I’m sorry about that. Will that be all?

She doesn’t want anything else, and pays with cash. She counts what I give back to her. She drops the chicken salad in her H&M bag, and then she leaves.

Have a great day! In my mind, I replace the H&M on her bag with BOOMER.

I remind myself that I am not an idiot, and that I deal with a lot, all day, and that I am good at my job. I remind myself that I am a human who makes mistakes. I remind myself to smile.

Another woman walks into the store. Hi, welcome in!

06:26 PM

I’m back from break, during which I inhaled a breakfast sandwich and submitted two

discussion posts on my phone. Apparently we have only made $96 so far from the dinner menu. The store is dark. Half of the patio is empty, and the people walking by, bundled up in winter coats, lean against the wind.

I’m sent over to the pass to bag food while my coworker Ayad takes his break. The dinner items come with a side salad and a little bag of pistachio cranberry cookies. Between orders, I stuff napkins into sandwich bags and draw hearts with a Sharpie on the cookie bags. I think of the people receiving them, in brownstones around Boston, living alone, living with girlfriends, living with husbands, living with tiny yappy dogs.

A woman comes in. I walk over to the register. Her hair is dark, curly, and pulled back in a tight ponytail. She carries a WHOLE FOODS canvas bag. She reminds me of my mother. She’s been thinking about getting a challah all day, but now she’s not so sure about the challah versus the pain de mie, and do I have a suggestion for her?

I bake challah at home, I say, but our challah is delicious.

She asks excitedly what recipe I use— I use Smitten Kitchen’s fig and sea salt challah, without the figs. I can’t find another good recipe for just one challah. She uses the New York Times recipe, makes two and freezes one. Smart, I say.

She decides on the pain de mie. She asks how long I’ve been making challah.

When I was at home, I made it every Friday since the start of the pandemic. I wanted to do that here, but I live alone and I can’t eat that much bread.

She’s sure my friends would be glad to eat it, and I agree. I ring up the pain de mie and an orange juice, and she tucks them into her WHOLE FOODS bag. Happy baking, she tells me, and leaves, pulling her hood up to block the wind.

08:32 PM

The close went quickly. Caleb, Ayad, and I walk out the door. Our manager stays behind, counting money, shutting everything down for the night. Lights flick off one by one. The wind bites my skin and whips my hair off my forehead. I button up my coat. Caleb and Ayad walk down the steps of the Arlington stop, waving goodbye, and I start the cold walk home.

Google tells me that the drought of the summer of 2016 brought many Back Bay buildings dangerously close to rotting and crumbling. Their foundations sit on man-made land, supported by wooden pilings. The drought brought the water table close to the pilings, putting them at risk for decay.

There’s something there, something about how the tiniest bit of stress can expose the problems lurking below a neighborhood so put-together and pristine on the surface. I’ll write about that later, I think.

It’s hard to put how I feel right now into words. I feel homesick. I feel happy. I feel tired. I want to collapse onto my sofa and pass out. I want to eat way too much cheesecake. I want to feel, just for a few minutes, like the people I welcome into Tatte.

I want to roll out dough on the dining room table, showing my mother how much it’s risen when she walks through the door with a WHOLE FOODS canvas bag full of groceries. I want to keep talking about bread. I want to work at a job where everyone who comes in asks me about recipes; where nobody plops their Chanel bags on the counter, knocking dinner menus left and right while digging in their MK MK MK clutch for their platinum VISA; where Favio and his girlfriend realize that the people bringing them their soy macchiatos are people; where older women understand that I have to remember three thousand things a day and sometimes none of those things are the price of chicken salad. I want to thank the New York Times Challah Lady for making my day a little less shit and reminding me why I even.

I could work at Starbucks, or Caffe Nero, or JAHO Coffee Roaster & Wine Bar. Sometimes, when people take their masks off inside to snap pictures of them biting into donuts for their Instagrams, I think about working at Target.

Then I bring home a whole cake, or I get handed a free iced latte with my name written on the top and little hearts drawn around it, or I talk about Boston winters with a customer excited to learn I’ve also moved from the Bay Area. I strike up a conversation with a man waiting for the restroom— he wants to know about the history of Tatte in Boston, and I tell him what I can.

I pet a very small dog. I hand the last almond croissant to a woman who tells me she is overjoyed that we have one left. She tells me that she stops by after work every day to try and buy an almond croissant. More often than not, we’re sold out.

I’m happy I could get you one today, I say, and I mean it.

I want to think that Back Bay is this woman— Almond Croissant Woman— or the New York Times Challah Lady. At times I think Back Bay is Favio and his girlfriend, MK MK MK clutches, $7 chicken salads, the Burberry model’s poster-sized glare. I want to think these things, but I know that Back Bay is none of them.

I know that Tatte Back Bay is just a coffee shop. I want to call it a microcosm of humanity, a shiny white petri dish for me to peer into. I want to claim that I know these people, that Favio and his girlfriend are selfish assholes, that the boomer really does value chicken salad over basic kindness and gratitude. I want to slap labels on them, thick-serif RICH KID, glossy embossed DADDY’S MONEY, CHALLAH LADY (GOOD PERSON?) in cursive scrawl. The truth is that I don’t know them, and I will never know them. Maybe Favio and his girlfriend were fighting that day. Maybe the boomer’s husband had just died. Maybe Challah Lady ran over a cat with her Subaru on the way home. Maybe maybe maybe.

Google tells me that Back Bay has a population of 16,427. The median age of those people is 35.3 years. Over nine thousand of them are white-collar workers. Their average household income is over $127k. Most of them are women. Most of them walk to work.

Google doesn’t tell me what challah recipe they use. It doesn’t tell me whether they feed the cookies that come with their cod in chraimeh sauce to their small, yappy dogs. It doesn’t tell me whether they notice the hearts I drew on their bags, or whether they smile before throwing those bags away.

We are what we say to customer service workers, and we aren’t. We are our jobs, our genders, our hobbies, our incomes, and we aren’t. We are the hi, welcome in and the thanks, take care and all the other facades we present to people, and we aren’t.

I walk up the steps of my apartment building, unlock and open the door, then close it behind me. Tatte Connor— the Connor I am and am not— stays out in the cold, perched on a wooden patio chair, shivering in his perfectly white work shirt: ready for me to step into him tomorrow.

Acknowledgements:

My inspiration for this essay came from working at Tatte and getting to know, through the lens of customer service, the people of Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. As anybody who has ever worked in customer service will know, working with people is the best and worst part of the job. I’ve had some truly frustrating interactions, and I’ve also met some people that brightened up the rest of my day. When I’ve been on my feet for five hours, maintaining a customer service persona, and dealing with everything else that customer service entails, it’s easy to assign labels to people and make snap judgements about them based on a one-minute interaction.

My goal for this essay was to go deeper than that. The assignment that prompted this essay was to compose a profile, creating— in the words of my WR 121 E47 professor Stephen Shane— a “dominant impression that captures the complexity of your subject”. While I wanted to profile the people of Back Bay, I’m aware that I will never be able to understand their complexity through these tiny snapshots, and I tried to convey that struggle in this essay. I’d like to thank Prof. Shane for assigning this essay, and I’d like to thank the customers of Tatte Back Bay for their inspiration.

[atarahsofer]

Activity Check - 31

"Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain."

Exhaustion eclipsed everything else as Atarah closed the door behind her. The sound of soft padding on the hardwood alerted her of Bamba before the small peanut colored pup was excitably jumping all over her. She set her bag down carefully on the entryway table and let out a soft coo to the pup before crossing to the kitchen, where she turned on the faucet. As calmly as she could, she ran her manicured hands underneath, sighing as scarlet painted the sink. A tinge of guilt settled in her stomach as she watched the blood pool in the drain.

Bamba had followed, watching her owner from the doorway as Atarah wiped her hands clean on a dish towel. Remaining as calm as she could, she took a deep inhale and undressed. She slipped off her combat boots, then her black skinny jeans, her top, her undergarments until she stood stark naked. Carefully, she set each item in the washing machine and put in the pod of detergent. Cold water. Delicate cycle.

By the time the washing machine cycle began, she’d already started the bath and put a Turmeric Latte bath bomb into the water. As the water filled, she looked at herself in the mirror. Was this who she’d become? Was this despite or because of what had happened? She could feel the ropes cutting into her wrists, the taunting words, the way her throat burned as she cried out. Her body had been battered and bruised, hanging there like an animal on a meat hook. No one ever tells you what it is like to pray for death, to feel yourself fall deeper and deeper into the darkness until you wish for everything to end.

There was always something that kept her from letting the darkness overpower her. A small flickering flame of hope as she delved deep into her psyche. Atarah could just escape to that moment and push past everything else to the happy place in her mind. She could just return to a place that would never feel be home again and remember what it had been like.

Shabbat dinner.

Their entire house smelled so fragrant from the intoxicating flavors that had been cooking all day. They covered every surface of the counter in salads, vegetables, meats, fish and desserts. It looked like they were catering a dinner for 90 (or 900, depending on the dinner), but it was just for them. Leah set the table, Atarah and possibly Tamar or Batya gathered all the serving utensils, platters, and set out wine and challah. Tatte and her brothers were coming home from synagogue just in time for everything to be ready.

Often and without alerting the women of the Sofer family, others from the community trailed behind after being given an invitation to join, causing the women to have to quickly find another table, set it and grab more wine. It was an honor to host others for Shabbat. God would bless them for sharing their bounty with others. Within minutes, everyone would be seated. Mamme had already lit the candles, but it was Tatte’s turn to say the blessings. He’d bless the wine, the children, his wife and slice the challah, sharing it with all of his guests.

Shabbat dinner was unlike every other dinner of the week. It was holy. It was a time to appreciate all they had, to relax and to assert their belief. God had provided once again though, really, more like the Israeli government, though no one would admit that. Atarah relaxed, filling her plate, listening to her father’s often off key singing and the deep discussions of complex religious text they assumed the women couldn’t understand. She listened with rapt attention, savoring the many dishes she had helped her mother cook all day long.

Dinner lasted hours, filled with many courses and discussions. It always felt so gratifying, so indulgent to share a table with people, especially her family, but Shabbat was the most special. Even now, whenever she needed to recall a time when she’d been truly happy, she thought of those dinners. Before things had gotten so complicated, before she’d been forced to make such a difficult decision. Before her father had disowned her.

The memory still made her chest tighten. If only she could've just been holy enough or understanding enough, maybe she could've accepted it. Maybe she would've been happily married and in love with a man who'd been a stranger. Maybe they would've had four children, maybe more. But she'd made a new life for herself, wasn't that enough? More than that?

Slipping into the tub, she allowed the warm water to soothe her sore muscles as she asked herself if she was truly as happy now as she had been at Shabbat dinner.

[ellcrys]

So apparently there’s a nor’easter in Boston this weekend and I was just 100% unaware of this. Like I knew it was going to rain but oh man it’s raining cats and dogs out here. The wind is blowing the rain in every which direction so I’m low key kind of soaked and feeling real blessed I was able to nab a spot pretty quickly at Tatte bc after walking here in the rain and getting soaked in the process I was *not* going to be happy if I couldn’t find a spot. I probably should have just gone straight home but it’s the rainy kind of day where I want to be in a cafe getting work done vs lounging at home doing nothing so. Here we are. I am ready for my latte and sandwich. ✌️

[sweetescape01748]

Tatte Bakery & Cafe Offers Elegant Yet Diverse Comfort Food

Kate O’Connor | Review | April 7, 2021

You might be tempted to brush off Tatte as a Boston bakery chain. However, after waiting in one of the epic lines and tasting any one of their fluffy creations, you’ll know, Tatte is worth the trip. 

(Back Bay)

What’s the Vibe?

Tatte Bakery and Cafe is located throughout the Boston Massachusetts area; Downtown Crossing, Back Bay, Beacon Hill, Brookline, The Seaport, and even Somerville. No matter which location you visit, each bakery follows the same aesthetic. After (generally) waiting in a line that is literally out the door,  you are struck by Tatte’s inviting, minimalist space and the aroma of freshly baked bread. There is an expansive outdoor eating area flanked by friendly waitstaff offering hand sanitizer and order suggestions. The indoor space is beautifully-crafted with monstrous crystal chandeliers that have a birds eye view of the black and white subway floor tiles, rustic tables and chairs, and the continuous amount of customers coming in to satisfy their sweet tooth, or just coming in for brunch. Throughout the entire bakery, there is an abundance of pastry display boxes which are filled with cookies, sourdough boules, quiches, scones, popovers, muffins and more. The main pastry counter is even a repurposed antique apothecary table aligned with even more danishes, ranging from gorgeously-slashed sourdough boules to handsomely rustic galettes and tarts. For Brunch lovers, breakfast is served all day, and the bakery offers reasonably priced items which include egg sandwiches starting at seven dollars, tartines for eleven, and lattes for about three dollars. It’s hard to restrain yourself from overbuying (or at least it was for me). No wonder why Tatte is on the list for “Most Instagrammable Places in Boston”....

First Visit: Brookline

From open until close you’ll find each Tatte bustling with a hurried, social, open-market energy including students, tourists, professionals, floaters, moms, and dads. So I’ve been to the Brookline, Back Bay, and Beacon Hill location, and all of them offer a different clientele. The Brookline location took my Tatte virginity back in 2016, when it was a hot summer day in June, and my friends and I were making our way to the MBTA Red line and wanted a little boost of energy. We popped in and I was blown away by the amount of people stopping by at 1 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. The consumers were a diverse array of male and females, mostly in business attire, and in a rush. I happened to notice some occasional tourists, but a lot of young individuals wearing Boston University merchandise. After a delicious Chocolate Croissant, I was satisfied with the Brookline location and felt ready to start a relationship with Tatte Bakery. 

Back Bay

 In August of 2019,  my younger sister and I decided to spend the day in Boston and caught a ride with my dad on his way to work. After getting situated in the office, my sister and I searched “coffee shops near me”.  Aside from Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts, Tatte Bakery stood out and caught our attention. According to our maps there was a Tatte Bakery right around the corner from Berkeley Street (where my dad worked), and based on my last visit, I was eager to visit again. At around 8:30 a.m, we made our way to the bakery, where I noticed there was a much larger space than the Brookline destination. Although it was a work day, I happened to notice not that many people were truly working in a professional capacity. Tatte was packed with baby strollers, couples in their thirties, and even sweaty runners. My sister and I carried out lattes, imagining that we were tourists strolling around Paris, France. By the second visit, I was getting a better understanding of Tatte’s simplistic ambience and how they meet the needs for an array of people throughout the day. 

Beacon Hill:

In contrast to the Tatte Bakery in Back Bay and Brookline, the Beacon Hill scene is by far my favorite! I have now been to the Tatte Bakery and Cafe located on Beacon Hill two times. My first trip to Tatte on Beacon Hill was with my mother and grandmother on a nice fall afternoon, when we were craving a little pick-me-up. I have never waited in such a crowded place for a cup of coffee before. Tatte was mobbed with young couples in their twenties, friend groups catching up, and even elderly couples enjoying hot bowls of soup or sharing a Danish. We were lucky enough to grab a table in the small space! Yet, the raspberry linzer cookie and cappuccino were worth the wait. The following year, on a warm Saturday in November 2020, my older sister and I wanted to spend the day together in Boston and tried to think of where to go for a light brunch while strolling Beacon Hill. Without much hesitation we agreed to go to Tatte Bakery. And let me tell you, this Tatte Bakery location is the ultimate people watching destination! Due to the glorious weather, and our good luck of getting a picnic table on the patio, my sister and I were able to sit outside! I don’t remember too much from our visit (don’t tell my sister) except for how many young women were around us grabbing a bite to eat after their yoga or spin class. The women around us were definitely a bit intimidating and flushed in their athleisure outfits. However, when the young men walked past the cafe, they seemed to be on their way to a more casual spot or back to bed. Tatte Bakery on Beacon Hill had an array of young stylish couples who looked like they were dressed almost too perfect for a Saturday casual brunch. After a full stomach of Greek Style Pancakes, I realized my relationship had deepend to a more exclusive one with Tatte Bakery. 

Must Haves:

In addition to presentation, Tatte is big on flavor. Each time that I have visited, I have ordered something different. However, I always pair my order with a nice, smooth latte. From Tatte, my go-to’s are their Stumptown Coffee/espresso (which I either take black or with just Oat Milk depending on my order), one of their croissants (chocolate is preferred), a raspberry linzer cookie, and their Greek Style Pancakes.  Now I must say that I am not a fan of eggs, so a typical breakfast for me is light. However, when I read on Tatte’s menu that their Greek Style Pancakes were served with Greek Yogurt, housemade pear jam, wildflower honey, and sesame seeds, I couldn’t resist...or finish them. For three pancakes that felt fresh and filling, they were accurately priced for a total of eleven dollars. The pancakes even paired well with my latte! I think the next time I visit a Tatte Bakery for brunch, I’m dying to try their Avocado and Sweet potato Tartine (I love sweet potatoes) and I hope that’ll be my order on my next date with Tatte. 

(Oatmilk latte & Raspberry Linzers - Back Bay )

 (Greek Style Pancakes - Beacon Hill)

The Service:

The team at Tatte can be strapped for time, as is the nature of a café with more guests than tables. They keep things rolling, but you may find them somewhat harried during the lunch rush. If you catch them outside of peak hours, they're happy to chat about the menu in more detail.

Some Tips: 

Tatte delivers on fancy food without the formalities of a reservation. Given the coffee-shop style seating, you either have to time your meal strategically or put up with a bit of mayhem. Keep your party small and nimble; bringing large groups can be precarious considering the near impossibility of securing a table that will fit everyone (pre-covid). Yet, stay as long as you can (if you’re not on the clock). Whether it be Back Bay, Beacon Hill, or Brookline, there are plenty of people-watching one can do while enjoying a chocolate croissant and a cup of coffee inside or outside the cafe. 

[idsb]

for the boston coffee rec anon: Pavement & Tatte are both great. There's a George Howell in the Time Out market in Fenway but that's more expensive. I treated myself to a bagel and coffee in there once - so good.

Ugh for some reason whenever I’m near a Tatte their closed, I feel like they have v weird hours? Or they’re not open on random days or something. But I always lust after their menu dfsgdjjd it seems so good!

And I just looked up George Howell and it seems really good too,,, I’m such a slut for a good maple latte and they apparently have them year round 🥺

[scurvgirl]

Awful first meeting AUs 2 for Mirevas? (i thought you were someone else au)

When Miriel wakes with a familiar kind of pain on her thigh,she groans and curses Jasen. She rises from her bed and climbs over Varas’sstill passed out body towards the bathroom. There, in the way too bright light,she gently peels off the black bandage, mostly wincing at the light.

“Fucking shit,”she mutters, looking at the little flower now tattooed high on her thigh. It’snot terrible, at least, just a little orange mum with a yellow center, notbigger than a couple of inches in diameter. The principle of thing still standsthough, Jasen is an ass for talking her into this. She mentions she’s considering a new tattoo and he drags her drunk assinto the nearest parlor and she gets this.It’s not even what she had been considering!

Fucking dammit.

After relieving herself and cleaning her face up, sheventures back out into the living room. Varas still hasn’t so much as evenmoved from his prone position on the futon. She didn’t even make it to thebedroom last night, oh boy. Just flopped down on Varas’s futon and called it anight.

Miriel tiptoes through the space, quietly dressing beforeslipping out the door to head down to the coffee shop Jasen visits everymorning. Asshole deserves a firm smack upside the head for this and owes herroughly eighty dollars. She needed that money for other shit, like rent andfood, and now she has to find some way to make up the difference.

She grabs her large hangover sunglasses on her way out,covering her eyes from the most offensive sun. Vague flashbacks of wanderinginto the tattoo shop, drunk and giggling, Jasen prodding her to “go for it” and“get the tatt”, filter into her head. She figuratively shakes them from herhead since the jostling motion right now may just stop her from fulfilling hermission.

The coffeeshop is only two blocks from the apartment, thankthe Creators, she doesn’t think she could do much further with the sun asbright as it is and with the noise of the street. Thankfully, she gets to thecoffee shop in quick order and ha! There that smug bastard is, waiting in lineas brazenly as he pleases. She lifts up her sunglasses and takes a deep breath.

Mustering up all her rightful indignation, Miriel stormsover to Jasen and punches the back of his shoulder.

“Hey, dumbass, you owe me – and ohCreatorsyou’renotJasenIamsosorry.”The man she thought was Jasen turns aroundin confusion at her punch, rubbing at his shoulder. He is definitely not Jasenthough, not with his blue eyes and unbroken nose.

Miriel’s hands fly to her face in extreme embarrassment.Nooo, this is not happening. She could have swornit was Jasen! Same height, build…so what if the clothes are leagues betterthan what she’s seen him wear? Oh Creators, she can’t believe –

“Ah, no, I am not Jasen,” the mystery man rubs at hisshoulder and Miriel flushes deeply.

“I am so sorry,let me buy your coffee!” Her hands move down to over her heart as she resiststhe urge to touch him and make sure he’s fine.

He smiles though and nods, “I will definitely let you buy mecoffee, but I gotta know, what did Jasen do to get me punched? Those tiny handsof yours are a lot more forceful than they look, you are packing.”

She blinks. Is he…flirting with her? She’s really toohungover to tell so she just smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry about that, I’m an aerialist, we need a lot of upperbody strength. And Jasen, he um, convinced me in my drunken state last night todo something really stupid.” They reach the counter and he places his order,she hands over the meager amount of cash she has, plus a few coins to make upthe difference. They step away and he turns serious.

“Convinced you to do something stupid? Should…I punch him?”

“Oh no, Creators no, nothing like that! He convinced me to get a stupid tattoo,” she confesses andhis face breaks into a shit-eating grin.

“Oh! Regrettable drunken tattoo, the bastard. What’d you get?Something naughty? Oh, did he get you to get his name on –

“It’s just a flower, not that big of a deal, really, except,ah never mind.”

“You can’t just leave me hanging like that, now, why is itso bad he got you a little flower? Flowers are cute, oh…unless it’s one of those flowers.” He wiggles his eyebrows,most likely trying to insinuate something naughty but she can’t think of whathe means.

“That’s just it, he didn’tget me it. I bought it. And, well…”

His face falls, “You couldn’t afford it.”

“Nope.” Just then his coffee order is called, and he takesit from the bar before walking over to the area to fix it.

“That is a real jerk move by Jasen. Now I feel bad forletting you buy me coffee, let me make it up to you.”

She blinks in confusion, “I bought the coffee to make up forhitting you.”

“Yeah but I didn’t know the circumstances why before, youthought I was that jerk, Jasen. Let me buy you dinner.”

Okay, he is definitelyflirting, and he is most certainly asking her out on a date. She stutters fora second, taken aback, and still hungover enough to not completely understandwhat is happening. She came in here to get Jasen to fork over at least some money to help her pay for thistattoo.

Walking out with a date with a guy who looks like he makes morethan enough money to afford a single apartment and his five-dollar latte a day.

“Um. Food is good,” she stammers, and he smiles broadly.

“I’m glad you think so. You free tomorrow?” He takes a sipof his coffee as she tries to gather herself. Tomorrow, tomorrow, she…doesn’thave anything.

“Yeah, tomorrow is good.”

“Great…trade numbers?” He hands her his phone and she digsher own out of her pocket, giving it to him. They type in their info and tradeback. She reads his number and name.

“Your name is Darevas?”

“Yep, see you tomorrow, Miriel.”He raises his coffee at her in departure before leaving the shop heading to…whereverhe’s going. Miriel just stands there in there shop for a minute, more than alittle stunned.

A moment later, Jasen walks into the shop. He sees her andblushes sheepishly.

“Man, I am so sorry. I will…figure something out and pay forit,” he says but she doesn’t really hear him. Did…did all of that really justhappen?

[thenicheproject]

City Guides // Boston: by Brayan Mesa

Boston Public Library - Whether studying for finals, looking for to rent a book, or simply looking for a place to warm up from our brutal winters, Bates Hall inside the Boston Public Library will always take your breath away.

Tatte Bakery & Café - You can never forget to treat yourself. That’s why you’ll catch me at Tatte enjoying a latte and one of their delicious treats about once a week!

Acorn Street - Ever heard of the most photographed street in the United States, but never actually seen it? Here it is in all its glory.

LookOut at the Envoy - Like I said, treat yourself. What better way, than enjoying this incredible view of Boston while enjoy a cocktail?

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston - The Museum of Fine Arts is definitely one of my favorite places to go by myself and simply enjoy the beauty surrounding me.

Follow Brayan Mesa on Instagram, here.