"You mentioned this establishment during our recipe consultation. I thought perhaps..." The messenger bag suddenly feels heavier. "I brought mixed-grain offerings. Cultural gratitude for translation assistance."
Her expression shifts from surprise to curiosity. "You brought me muffins?"
"Friendship tokens. Or neighborly appreciation. I'm still learning appropriate social categories."
She closes the laptop and gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Sit. But you should probably order something first. Sarah gets territorial about table space during morning rush."
The counter beckons with intimidating complexity: multiple espresso machines, flavor syrups arranged in pharmaceutical precision, milk alternatives labeled with terms I've never encountered in six human dialects. Behind the register, a woman with intricate braids and barista-focused intensity processes orders with assembly-line efficiency.
Coffee procurement shouldn't require advanced degrees.
I approach the counter and study the menu board, searching for familiar terminology among artisanal descriptions and seasonal specialties. The line builds behind me: humans checking phones, tapping feet, emanating impatience that makes my skin prickle with social anxiety.
"Large coffee, please."
"What kind?" The barista, Sarah, speaks with friendly professionalism that doesn't quite mask her assessment of my capabilities.
"Coffee. Dark. Hot."
"Americano? Pike Place? Cold brew?"
The queue behind me shifts restlessly. Someone sighs with theatrical frustration.
"The standard variety?"
Sarah's smile tightens slightly. "House blend work for you?"
"Perfect."
"Cream? Sugar?"
"Six sugars."
Her eyebrows lift. "Six?"
"Metabolism requires substantial glucose supplements."
"Okay then. Six sugars."
I pay and move to the pickup area, watching Sarah construct my order with practiced movements while other customers receive elaborate foam art and carefully measured additions. My coffee arrives in a simple paper cup with a small mountain of sugar packets balanced on the saucer.
Simple. Efficient. No complications.
Back at Maya's table, I deposit the messenger bag beside my chair and begin the sugar integration process. Six packets require systematic approach: tear, pour, stir, repeat. But the tiny plastic stirrer feels fragile between my fingers, and the foam layer proves resistant to standard mixing techniques.
Perhaps more vigorous circulation will achieve proper dissolution.
I increase stirring intensity, applying the same methodical pressure I use for thick orcish tea preparations. The foam responds by expanding rapidly, coffee liquid sloshing against cup walls with increasing violence.
The stirrer snaps.
Foam erupts across the table surface in beige waves, splashing Maya's laptop bag and creating abstract patterns on the dark wood finish. Droplets reach her notebook, others sail toward neighboring tables where humans freeze mid-conversation to stare at the chaos I've created.
Magnificent disaster.
My cheeks burn with what must be visible green embarrassment while Maya springs into action, grabbing napkins from the dispenser and pressing them against expanding coffee puddles. Other patrons watch with expressions ranging from amusement to mild horror.
"Sorry, sorry..." I fumble for additional napkins, knocking over the sugar packet pile and creating secondary chaos. "I miscalculated foam density."
