Diogenes & the Barista

Diogenes’ Empty Lantern Series

The Barista

Just after sunrise, he wandered into the coffee shop. Not because he wanted coffee—Diogenes wanted nothing—but because that’s where the people were. And people were always interesting when they were pretending not to be.

Corporate types in fleece vests. Freelancers milking the illusion of productivity. Someone livestreaming their matcha like it was a sacred rite. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, lantern in one hand, chipped clay mug in the other.

The lantern glowed faintly, like a little reactor core—its light casting no shadow, noticed by no one. There was nothing inside it. That’s what gave it power.

The barista greeted him with the tone of someone who’d already said “good morning” 43 times and hadn’t meant it once.

“What can I get started for you?”

Diogenes scanned the menu like it was a pantheon of hollow gods. Almond milk, oat milk, half-caf, sugar-free salvation. Choose your flavor of poison or performance.

He held up the mug. “Give me something real.”

The barista blinked. “Real? Like… black coffee?”

“Not dressed up in syrup. Not foamed into a cloud. Something bitter enough to taste the truth.”

“Uh… we’ve got a dark roast?”

“And what hides in that darkness?”

The barista gave him that familiar look—half concern, half confusion—the one reserved for prophets, madmen, and people who don’t wear shoes.

“I—it’s just coffee, man.”

Diogenes tilted the lantern slightly toward him—not that he saw the glow wash across his face.

“You put on a face every morning and serve the whole damn city. A few nice honest folks, sure—maybe someone who asks your name and means it. But mostly? It’s a stream of edge-lords, burnt-out execs, trust fund brats, and performative saints. All of them projecting their leftover misery into your tip jar.”

The barista snorted, involuntarily. Gave him a nod. Then glanced over Diogenes’ shoulder—like the whole cast of humanity had walked in right behind him.

There was no one there.

“And the real jerks?” Diogenes went on. “They don’t ruin your day outright. They just prime you. So the next poor bastard—some guy who doesn’t know where the line starts—catches the splashback. The snark. The pressure valve disguised as customer service. Part inertia, part survival. Rarely intentional.”

The barista exhaled through his nose. Half sigh, half surrender.

“Yeah… makes me feel like I’m radioactive.”

“Modern passive aggression’s developed its own nervous system,” Diogenes said. “Like a virus that jumps hosts—passed along in strained smiles and half-meant words. Most folks don’t even know they’re carrying it.”

The barista leaned on the counter, more curious than cautious now. “You like a philosopy professor or monk or something?”

“No,” Diogenes said. “Just a guy who remembers what people were before they started trying to be liked.”

“You’ve either got a lot of courage or a lot of humility in that inner you of yours. Probably lots of both, and neither are easy to carry.” Visible to none but Diogenes, the lantern lit up the Baristas's face like a streetlight at just the right angle—settling on him in that rare, still moment when someone realizes they’ve been recognized.

He poured the coffee into his own mug. No charge. No sermon. The barista gave him another nod—not customer-service this time, but something more human. Recognition.

Diogenes took a seat by the window. The city kept moving. People passed—faces glowing with screens, not sunlight.

The lantern sat beside him. Glowing. Empty. Unseen.

He sipped.

He waited.

Not for answers. Not even for honesty.

Just for someone who remembers how to be.