The barista had a dream in which she was a bartender. The bar was dimly lit with only a baby handful of barflies hovering atop sullen barstools, swilling cheap hard liquor and spewing misogynistic banter that normally offended her. However, in the dream the barista was genuinely engaged and even slung her share of sexist observations. As she turned to reach for another bottle of JB, the barista caught a glimpse of her sallow reflection and shuddered. Her countenance rebounded off the liquor-stained mirror and, much like the men she was serving in that hole of a bar, projected a sickly hue that reeked of destitution. Aside from her ghastly appearance and demeanor, it was a rather banal dream, as it merely substituted the proffering of ground coffee for bottom-shelf whiskey. Upon awaking, she wondered what significance such an episode portended but soon shook off the fading images and headed to the shower.