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“Medium?”

“No. Large.”

“Right. Large.” She taps again. “Cream?”

“Black.”

“Sugar?”

I look at her. “Black.”

“Right. Sorry.” More tapping. “Any pastries?”

“No.”

“We have really good cinnamon rolls.”

“No.”

“Muffins?”

“No.”

“Cookies?”

“What part of coffee did I make confusing?”

Her mouth snaps shut.

I watch her.

She's nervous. Not normal customer-service nervous.

Me nervous.

She knows something.

“Okay,” she says quickly. “One large coffee. With cream.”

“No. Black.”

Her eyes widen. “Black. Sorry. I meant black.”

I narrow my eyes.

She gives me a nervous smile, then looks past me. But not at the front door. She’s looking toward the bathroom door.

My instincts sharpen.

“Name for the order?”

I don't answer.

Her fingers hover above the screen. “Sir?”

Why the fuck does she need my name for black coffee?

I look around.