1
BARISTA BLUES
RUBY
The great thing about being a barista is that people forget you’re human the second they’re done snapping their beverage order at you. Hell, sometimes your humanity doesn’t register at all.
I don’t mind.
I’m not really a people person. And the mechanics of managing an industrial-size coffee machine for six hours straight gives me time to weave stories in my head.
Stories featuring the very same people who snap at me.
Take Green Satchel Guy, for instance. I’m convinced he’s one caffeine-deprived episode from murdering his girlfriend.
Or the pink-haired professor who, at sixty-odd, should really know better than to keep eye-fucking the student young enough to be her grandson.
And yet here we are with me watching her desperate attempts to buy his affection with a macchiato for the fourth time this week, and him… well, sponging the fuck off her because student poverty is real, am I right?
“Yo, how long’s this gonna take? I’ve been standing here for like… five minutes.”
I curb my eye roll only because my boss is standing right next to me, but I let him handle the smiling apology that’s required regardless of how shitty we’re treated.
I catch the finger-drumming-on-counter from the corner of my eye but don’t turn around.
“Yeah, we’ve auditioned almost five hundred girls. Every single one of them is lacking in some way. I’m just about ready to pluck out my eyeballs and send them to Mars just to see if we can find some alien chick who fits the?—”
I freeze. Then I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to say more. Because that sounded a hair above average on the juicy scale.
When nothing comes, I sigh, cap the Cuban caramel tower I’ve just prepared, and turn.
Dark brown eyes are fixed on me. Not in a polite or casual way.
It’s the kind of stare that saysyou interest me / you’re the answer to my immediate problem / I’m going to exploit the fuck out of you, I’m just judging how best to trick you into giving me what I want.
This is LA.
I know how shit works.
So I curb a huff because I need this job and don’t want to be fired in my third week, and glance down at the concoction I’ve just made. “Caramel tower for Tom?”
I know it’s not Staring Guy because he doesn’t look like a Tom. And he wouldn’t know what to do with a fancy drink like this if it swam upstream and fondled his?—
I’m grateful when a preppy type steps forward and I hand over the cup.
Toby, my boss moves toward me just as Staring Guy angles his head. “Can I talk to you for a minute, miss?”
Hey, at least he called memiss.
“Sorry, sir, customers aren’t allowed to personally interact with our servers,” Toby jumps in.
I’d be grateful for the assist if I thought he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart. But no. Toby-Married-With-Four-Kids-But-Is-Very-Open-Minded-About-Cheating is very vigilant about shutting down advances toward me. On account of wanting to swan dive into my panties himself.
And there’s my other problem.
From unfortunate habit, I know it’s only a matter of time before he stops taking no for an answer and does something that’ll earn him a knee in the balls. Or worse.
Sadly, the same something would also leave me jobless.
