The Bee.

The floor of the café was hardwood, painted a deep blue-green one might find on the bottom of a dory in Maine. Bowie crooned gently in the background, over the cacophony of the espresso machine’s constricted wail.
Between sips of a perfect Caffé Americano, your attention is drawn to the attractive young woman sitting at the window seat. Her matching yellow tank top and wellington boots provide a quirky, innocent backdrop for the events that unfold as you come to the realization that you are dreaming.
It is almost without realizing it that you become aware of the bee fruitlessly banging its head against the window. Its size is alarming to the bespectacled, sadly combed-over man sitting in the corner. He jumps up and attempts to seize the bee in a napkin, nearly knocking the table over in the process.
A young man with curly hair, a bored expression and a surly demeanor walks in the door. He observes the mélee occurring in the corner and strides over.
The young man’s eyes narrow, his mouth opens wider than you’ve ever seen, and an appendage made of wind licks out like a tongue of cloud, enveloping the bee and bringing back into the young man’s mouth.
The young man grins theatrically at the shocked onlookers and smirkingly walks outside. He sits down at a table, opens his mouth and gently pokes his tongue into the air. The bee, looking bewildered, shakes off its wings momentarily and takes flight, off into the sky.