1
Aoi
“You’re a barista and can’t even make my iced Frappuccino right?! Then quit your fucking job!”
It’s eleven in the morning, and I already have to share oxygen with infuriating people. If I were a barista having to deal with rude customers like that bald-headed man, I would quit on the spot because that’s simply intolerable.
He looks older than he must truly be. He has to be at least in his late forties, but damn, he looks ready to retire with the way his beer belly is bouncing all over the place.
I really don’t want to get involved, but he’s causing a huge ruckus in the coffee shop and embarrassing an innocent worker.
“Excuse me, sir? If you’re unhappy with your coffee, you should simply say so. There’s no need to yell at the lady who’s just doing her job.”
The customer turns around to face me and exposes a huge, crooked nose. Usually, I wouldn’t comment on someone’s appearance, but this man has got to hate himself for how he looks.The worst is that it’s not even his individual features that are unpleasant. It’s simplyhis face.
He has a big, lumpy mole on the right side of his chin with a hair poking out of it. Maybe he’s being rude to the barista because he’s so miserable with his appearance that he has to make it everyone else’s problem?
Either way, that doesn’t matter. Who cares if he’s unhappy with himself? That’s not a reason to disrespect and humiliate another person. Man, I feel bad for the young lady. Working in retail is unnecessarily stressful.
His Frappuccino doesn’t look strange. It’s perfect, actually–from the liquid in the cup to the whipped cream on top. What on earth is he complaining about?
“What the fuck are you getting involved for, huh?” he shouts, and with every word, he spits a drop of saliva right into my face.
“Look sir.” I wipe the spit off my face with the back of my sleeve. “Take your drink and leave. That’ll be better for everyone. You don’t like this coffee shop, and clearly nobody wants you here either.”
His face flushes with rage, and I swear I see smoke blowing out of his ears like a damn locomotive. Way to be dramatic.
“You disrespectful little brat. You think you can look down on me because you’re young? Show some respect for your elders!”
Fucking hell.
Is it so hard for him to just shut the fuck up and leave? I literally don’t have time for this crap. In less than an hour, I’m supposed to be at the agency for an important meeting–but no. I have to stop some idiot from ruining everyone’s day.
Why am I even getting involved? It’s none of my business. I could simply take my coffee and leave, but the embarrassed face of that lady is making me feel bad.
Before I can talk back and calm him down, he splashes his Frappuccino right onto my shirt. Mywhiteshirt.
Arguing is pointless. Words only work on those who listen, and in this instant, I’m seeing red. Grabbing the hem of my sleeve, I begin pulling it up, and crack my knuckles.
Fuck being a decent man. I’m going to break his nose.
Someone better hold me back because I’m about to relieve years of pent-up frustration on this bald-headed donkey. It would only be right, but Dixon waltzes in.
“What happened? Why are you drenched in coffee?” he asks, alarmed.
Dixon is wearing his favorite navy-blue blouse with light grey pants and loafers that match his blouse. His brown skin complements the color of his top and makes him glow.
Somehow, out of all the people I know, the one with the best fashion sense is Dixon. He’s always dressed like he’s going to a fashion show, and I live for it. He makes the dullness of life a bit more colorful.
The old man, on the other hand, isn’t done messing with everyone’s morning. He goes on and on about howIwas the one to provoke him first and how, apparently, I was especially rude to him.
“I wouldn’t have been rude if you hadn’t been a piece of shit,” I mumble under my breath.
He must have visibly caught me mumbling because he explodes in fury and attempts to grab me by the collar, but Dixon interjects. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, sir? Do you seriously want to add physical assault to the charges when we report you to the cops?”
The old man clearly doesn’t want to get involved with the authorities, but still can’t shut his mouth to save his life. Instead, he starts claiming that the barista intentionally made his Frappuccino warm.
“I didn’t! The Frappuccino was iced,” she counters in a tiny voice, embarrassed by the scene unfolding.
