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An entire minute passes and he’s still looking at me, still savoring that same small sip.
I sigh. “Is there something wrong with your coffee sir?”
He moves the cup from his mouth. “It’s a bit bitter.”
“No, it’s not.” I scoff. “I just made it.”
“I’m pretty sure it is.” He hands the cup back to me. “Can you add some more sugar please?”
“There’s a condiment stand on the back wall. You can add it yourself.”
He raises his eyebrow, looking as if he can’t believe I just said that.
“Mr. Black, is there something wrong?” Sarah is suddenly at my side, looking back and forth between me and this idiot.
“Not at all. I was just asking,” he says as he looks at my nametag, “Emerald if she would add some more sugar to my coffee.”
“Oh! I got it!” Sarah takes the cup and begins to remake it while I glare at him in silent contempt.
“There you are.” She hands the new cup to him with a smile.
He takes a slow sip of it and smirks, winking at me. “Much better. Thank you ladies.” He looks at my nametag again before walking out of the store.
“Is he someone important in town or something?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.” She shakes her head. “I just know his name is Carter, he’s a regular here in the summer, and—”
“He has a stick up his ass.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugs and starts to show me how to make the smoothies. “Pay close attention to this, alright? Oh, and did you really not want to grab dinner after work? Are you out of your bitch mode yet?”
“No, and I’m not in bitch mode,” I say flatly and she laughs.
I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a Cartier watch—a four thousand dollar watch on her left wrist, and black Chanel flats. There’s no way she can afford either of those by working here—unless her parents are loaded, and I know they’re not because no one in Blythe is loaded.
I decide that both items are grade-A knock-offs and that I’ll ask her where I can get them from. But, when she goes on break I notice her Valentino bag and know for a fact that it’s real; I used to have the exact same one.
How the hell did she get that? And where?
For the rest of my shift, I try to be as polite as I possibly can to the customers, wondering if there’s some type of employee “designer discount” bonus that I don’t know about.
By the time I clock out, my back and my feet ache from standing all day. To make matters worse, I’ve subconsciously counted my pay for the past eight hours: Sixty four dollars. Before taxes.
This shit is for the birds...
––––––––
The next day, I find myself face to face with an elderly man who’s been holding up the line for at least ten minutes.
“Ah...” he says. “What about that soy latte?”
“There’s no added sugar in that one either.”
“Hmmm.” He nods, still seemingly transfixed by the menu above. “I just don’t know...Everything looks so good today. I mean, I come here every day, but there’s something about today...”
“Okay sir.” I try my hardest not to roll my eyes. “Could you step to the side please? I’ll help you whenever you make up your fuck—whenever you make up your mind.”
He smiles and kindly steps to the right, letting me assist the fifteen other customers that have been waiting behind him. When I’ve served everyone, he tells me that he’s settled on a plain black cup of coffee.
“You ready to go on your break?” Sarah taps me on the shoulder and I notice she’s wearing a different Cartier watch on her wrist.
Maybe she’s a drug dealer...I wonder if she needs a new transporter... “I’m more than ready.”
“Okay. See you in an hour.”
I press a few buttons on the register and hear a familiar voice.
“Can I have the same thing I had yesterday?” It’s Carter. “With the right amount of sugar?”
“You think I actually remember what you had yesterday?” I definitely do, but I refuse to admit it. “Sarah will have to make it for you. I’m on break.”
I walk away with a smile and feel his eyes watch my every move as I slip into the backroom.
I grab the warm concoction I made earlier—a French vanilla latte with cinnamon and chocolate shots, and head outside to the patio, taking a table near the back.
Going on break is always my favorite part of having a job—especially the jobs where they give you a full hour; thirty minutes is never long enough to convince myself not to quit.
