Tabula Rasa

It had started with the cafes, and the patrons who frequented those cafes. Crotchety old folk with a penchant for glaring at newness and moaning about anyone with a name containing three or more syllables. These were the poor folk who found themselves on the outs. The Old Square wasn't made up of four perfect sides as one might envision - it all skewed obtusely - but town planners didn't think that The Old Rhombus held the same romantic connotations or perceptions. It had several pleasing amenities that lined its perimeter - a bank, a grocery store, two bars, three cafes and a municipal pool. Although the wider town was mostly made up of jagged new builds, there did lie a quaint authenticity within the square itself. Its uniform yellow brick was pre-war, and it boasted a sturdy character that the locals found equal parts charming and reliable. Robust, weathered, yet inviting and warm. The very centre of the square bore life to a towering oak tree, surrounded by a scattering of benches that were hardly ever unoccupied. The people of the town were close-knit. They eternally knew the business of one another. Their bodies were all busy, and they did not mind that fact of life one bit. They were the same, likeminded, in it together. They even looked somewhat similar. Deep frown lines that spoke of strict upbringings darkened their brows, deepened further with the lack of sun protection over the long years. That being said, they were, somewhat surprisingly, interested in keeping their cholesterol down and their heart rates up. A cognisance of physical activity banded them together, and nothing helped the rush of blood through the veins like a good old fashioned gossip on a brisk walk through town. "Did you hear about Britannia's?" "The cafe on the old square? I can't believe it." "I know, closed after thirty seven years." "Did you hear who bought it from Maureen?" "The mixologist from the city? I can't believe it." "I know - what does a mixologist know about how we take our tea?" So, it had started with the cafes. With the dissolution of Britannia's and the uprising of Crates and Barrels. The word 'chai' was mentioned more times than anyone cared to count. Avocados rolled down the hills in their hundreds. Before they'd had a chance to realise, the original inhabitants of this sleepy town were sat at unconventional sharing tables with strangers, unwittingly eating meat alternatives with every overpriced meal. The busybodies were not a fan of change, especially such a slow, sneaking change. So they whispered. They schemed. Over the coming days and weeks, strange occurrences took place at Crates and Barrels. Craft beers exploded every time a bottle cap was expertly lifted off. Wines were ruined upon the removal of the cork and the cheese boards were continually over-mouldy. One morning the mixologists warily walked towards their storefront. Across its facade, scrawled in deep red, were the sinister words: ‘Nobody messes with Maureen.’