This is insane. This entire conversation is insane. I should probably end this interview right now and call the next candidate. Except I really, really don’t want to interview anyone else. I’m so close to finishing the incantation. The dark moon is in three days, and I’ve been working on this summoning for months. If I don’t get it done now, I’ll have to wait another month, and I absolutely cannot wait another month.
I need someone who can make a decent cappuccino and handle the morning rush without burning the place down. Brian has coffee shop experience. He seems cheerful and friendly, which customers apparently love, for some unknown, utterly baffling reason. And most importantly, if I hire him right now, I can get back to my flat and finish the final preparations.
Besides, most people think I’m a weirdo, and yet I’m a fantastic coffee shop employee, so who the hell am I to judge? So what if Brian is relentlessly cheerful? It wouldn’t be fair to hold it against him.
How bad could hiring him be? Any pain would be worth getting out of the utter ball-ache of interviewing more people.
I narrow my eyes and observe him with my other vision. His aura flares into view. Golden and bright and thoroughly sincere. None of him is an act. He really is this bouncy and pure. It’s enough to give me nausea.
“Right,” I say, making a decision I will definitely regret. “You’re hired. Minimum wage, tips are pooled, you get one free drink per shift. Don’t steal, don’t show up drunk, and absolutely no trying to convert customers to your cult.”
Brian’s face lights up like I’ve just told him he won the lottery. “Oh my goodness, thank you so much! This is amazing! I promise you won’t regret this!”
He lunges forward with his arms spread wide, and I throw myself backwards in my chair so fast I nearly tip over.
“Hell no!” I snap. “First rule, no hugging the manager.”
Brian freezes mid-lunge, but his grin doesn’t fade. “I hear you. Don’t worry, friend, I’ll wear those prickles down and get to the squishy marshmallow underneath.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “There is no marshmallow. I am prickles all the way through. I am a dead cactus. One that has been set on fire.”
“Sure you are,” he says, as if he’s humouring a toddler.
I grab an apron from behind the counter and throw it at him. “Your first shift starts now. Put that on.”
“Now? Really?” Brian catches the apron and clutches it to his chest like it’s a precious gift. “Oh wow, okay! Yes! Let’s do this!”
He pulls the apron over his head with so much enthusiasm he nearly strangles himself with the ties. I watch in horrified fascination as he bounds over to the coffee machine and starts examining it like it’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen.
The door chimes, and two customers walk in. Before I can say anything, Brian spins around and spreads his arms wide.
“Welcome to Coffeelicious!” he announces, his voice booming across the tiny shop. “How may we serve you?”
The customers look startled. One of them takes a step backwards. I groan and press my fingers against my temples.
What was I thinking? This is Adam’s coffee shop now. Adam is my friend, so I should put a modicum more care into who I hire.
This is going to be a disaster.
I brace myself for the horror, and settle down to watch whatever the hell is about to occur.
Brian makes a perfect flat white. He makes a perfectly decent Americano. He talks to the customers about Bristol pigeons, their audacity, the comparative politeness of Somerset birds. All while grinning absurdly, as if he actually likes serving customers and genuinely enjoys talking to people.
It’s quite possibly the most abhorrent thing I’ve ever witnessed, but it’s not a disaster.
The woman drops three pounds in the tip jar and tells him to have a lovely day.
The moment they’re gone, he announces, “That was amazing!” and spins around to face me with his wholebody, arms spread slightly, like he expects a hug for doing his job.
“The flat white was acceptable,” I say.
“It was perfect,” says Brian, without any arrogance at all, just as a statement of fact, and then he starts wiping down the machine without being asked, and I hate that I am the tiniest bit impressed by his work ethic.
“High Priestess Magdalene taught me well,” he continues. “She’d probably have something to say about the capitalist wage structure. But I think she’d appreciate the craftsmanship.”
I watch him work. He is humming.
He is humming something I don’t recognise and wiping down my espresso machine with the focused contentment of someone who is exactly where they want to be, and the worst part, the genuinely worst part, is that the flat white really was perfect. I’m not going to tell him that. I’m not going to tell him anything except where the milk goes and what time his next shift starts and possibly, if the situation demands it, what the rules are regarding humming.
