“Customers come first.” God, could I have said anything more cliché than that?
“I’d prefer you to pick up the pots first.”
Of course you would, Mr. Owner of the World.
“Look, it’s not the first time I’ve dropped things. You know those videos where someone pulls an item off a shelf in the store and everything else falls to the ground? I’ve been the star of a few of those, so you can rest assured that as soon as I serve you, I’ll take care of it in an instant. Believe me, if the manager comes and sees a customer without a coffee cup in front of them while I calmly put away pots, I could lose my job.”
He finally moves, and I thank God for it, because I’m not very good at arguing.
“Black.”
“Huh?”
“You asked how I wanted the coffee. I always drink it black,” he says, making it clear he’s accustomed to being served.
Always drink it black,I mentally repeat.
The way he said it makes it sound like from now on he’ll be having his breakfast in this magnificent cafeteria every day.
Right.
Let him just taste the potato water we call coffee that we serve here, and I bet he’ll order the place to be shut down.
I stifle a laugh at the thought, but then I remember that I need this job.
No, no, no.
Don’t you dare mess with the place where I work, suit-and-tie man.
“Do you prefer your coffee stronger?”
Intuition tells me yes, but it isn’t kindness that makes me offer another option—which isn’t even on the menu, for starters—but because my crazy head is afraid he might be some sort of coffee inspector, get upset with the dirty water, and then actually shut down the restaurant.
You must be wondering how I can make stronger coffee. It’s because, although I’m American, I was raised by a Brazilian, so I know perfectly well what real coffee looks like, and it definitely isn’t like what we serve here.
“Do you know how to make stronger coffee?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have offered, sir.
But I love my tips, so I just reply, “Yes, sir. I can prepare the best coffee you’ve ever had.” I quickly correct myself: “According to the available raw material, of course.”
It may be my imagination, but the corner of his mouth seems to lift in an attempt at a smile. But it happens so quickly that I’m not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
“Alright. Surprise me, Olívia.”
“How do you know—?”
Before I finish the question, he points to my name tag.
Feeling embarrassed by the bizarre show I’ve put on, starting with theDespacitoperformance, then the dropping of the pots, followed by the verbal meltdown, I flee from there as if a serial killer were on my trail. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 2
You know when you’re on the road and come across a car accident?
You know you shouldn’t slow down and stare, but at the same time, you can’t stop yourself from doing just that. That’s kind of how I felt from the moment I walked into the café and saw Olívia.
