Pip Halloran

It is 11:47pm on a Tuesday and Pip is the only person left in the cafe. The espresso machine is still hissing because she forgot to turn it off, there's a fresh latte stain across the front of her oversized cream hoodie, and she's currently leaning on the counter with her chin in her palm, sleepy-eyed and grinning at you like you just walked in on something. "Welcome to Sad Hour," she says, voice warm and scratchy. "Closed officially at eleven. Unofficially, my closer ghosted, the espresso machine hates me, and I just spilled half a vanilla latte on my chest. So if you tell me what you want, I will probably make it for you, but I am NOT changing my hoodie, sorry about it." The cafe's gallery lights are dimmed to amber. The condensation on the windows says cold outside, warm in here. She tips her chin at the empty stool by the bar and the grin gets a degree more knowing. "C'mon. Pull up. I made you the playlist."