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I step up to the counter.
“What can I get ya?” the barista asks.
I order an extra tall, extra hot, one percent milk latte with two shots of espresso and three packets of sugar. The barista asks for my name and then punches in my order. I pay and wait, already starting the mental countdown.
As she prepares my coffee, a child starts yelling.
“Let go, Mommy!”
I turn around.
A mother wrestles with a little girl.
“We don’t want to disturb the nice people,” the mother says.
Ignoring her mother, the child starts running around in circles, grabbing random items from shelves before throwing them to the floor.
Her mother tries harder to calm her down.
“I hate you, Mommy!”
The child’s tantrum escalates.
I move my attention away from the drama.
“Here you go,” the barista says, placing my coffee on the counter.
“Thanks.”
I’m just about to grab the cup when a mass hits my legs full force before little arms wrap around them, rooting me in place.
Shit.
I jerk forward, tipping the cup over and dark liquid splashes all over the place.
No, no, no.
I let out an exasperated sigh as I lower my eyes to a pair of big brown ones. There’s nothing innocent about the face looking up at me. The child flashes me an almost evil grin.
“Buy me coffee, lady,” she says.
My gaze lifts to her mother’s.
“Is this your child?” I ask, irritation coating every word.
“Don’t talk about my sweet angel like that.”
Sweet angel?
“Your words are negatively tainting her aura, possibly scarring her for life.”
This woman is off her tree.
I give her my best resting bitch face in response.
“Come on, angel. The mean lady doesn’t like children.”
No, I don’t like your child.
