Hemingway goes up to the counter and orders one espresso. It’s hot. He drinks it in silence. It makes him remember his father’s cabin. He thinks about the woman he loved once. He does not smile. The coffee reminds him of war - short but painful, swallowed down quickly. One could order worse drinks. He leaves Starbucks and walks out into the rain.
Jorge Luis Borges goes up to the counter. He comes to the conclusion that the possible permutations of size, flavor, and strength stretch far beyond what any one man could experience. He orders every permutation and moves to the back of the room, where he will spend the rest of his days attempting to catalog all the possibilities of the infinite Starbucks.