I don't know how Coldems can drink a hot beverage without melting

In the interest of pursuing my literary career, I will experiment with form by writing this following post entirely through dialogue.

"Welcome to Starbucks! How may I help you?"

"I'd like one grande Slenderccino and a tall Coldcha, please."

"How many times do we have to tell you that those aren't drinks?"

"Then give us the usual! And make it snappy as Coldems and I take seats over here and describe your coffee establishment aloud in third-person omniscient narration style."

"The Starbucks was cold like some like it hot."

"The sun drenched the windows like a sponge drenches a car at a car wash."

"Approximately twelve patrons littered the restaurant."

"Like twelve rowdy citizens in a pub that only serves coffee!"

"Leave the similes to me, Slend. The lady at the counter had a peachy face, as if Jodie Foster gave birth to a.. a peach."

"Where'd you say you majored in creative writing, Coldems?"

"Harvard. Why?"

"No reason. The two young and reasonably attractive detectives eyed the floor, which had recently received such a vicious mopping it looked like dogs had salivated all over it."

"Dogs with mops."

"There sat, opposite the table of our modern protagonistic heroes, a fat-faced man who had such an ugly face he legitimately hurt to look at."

"Your coffees are ready!"

"Excellent. Now the detectives stroll, at a leisurely pace, across the establishment, pick up their drinks, and then return to their sun-drenched wet-floored table."

"And drink up!"

"Yes. And drink up."

"So what are your thoughts on the Grot case?"

"Mm. I'm not sure."

And then we left, frustratingly no further in our thoughts.