My favorite feature is the front door’s white and gray marble threshold, worn smooth by the passage of feet over the years. I wonder who they belonged to, where they were going.
History fascinates me, so no wonder I also contemplate the stories behind my oddities, wishing they could whisper their secrets to me. Tell me the tales of their past lives.
I wonder who I was in my previous lives. Hopefully someone amazing, like Cleopatra, Tamar the Great, or Florence Nightingale. Maybe a Salem witch burned at the stake for taking in strays labeled as familiars, like my inherited prickly shop cat. I shiver, so many delicious possibilities to lose myself daydreaming in.
My love of history also made it easy to fall in love with this old section of town. Now it is quite up and coming, but back when I had first bought the building, the surrounding area hadn’t been as shiny. Gradually the neighborhood has grown more affluent, bringing in businesses, cafes, new homeowners, and, most importantly for my shop, more foot traffic.
The end result is fabulous. I have almost everything I need close to the shop—a thriving small business following my passion—and my investment in my glorious old girl has been a sound one. I am proud to have played a part in the revitalization of this historical section that had been in danger of being lost to the ravages of neglect.
Since the computer is taking its sweet time, with fifteen minutes until I officially open, I decide to dash across the street and grab some coffee from Murray’s. Skipping the crosswalk in my hurry, I cast a cautious eye to the overcast sky threatening a downpour.
The door chimes happily announce my arrival as I burst through the door and look around for my favorite barista. I let out a sigh, greeted by the sight of yet another unfamiliar face. Now I will have to train someone new for not just my complicated order, but also to say my name correctly.
Although I love being unique, I wish I had a more conventional name. If I ever have kids, I will give them nice, normal names, like Grace or William. Something easy to spell and say.
My dull senses perk up at the promise of the delicious brew as the aroma of freshly ground beans surrounds me. I only hope the new person can get my order right. It’s not that I want a difficult coffee order, just like I don’t want a name no one can pronounce. But at thirty years old, I know what I want, and in this case, it is an extremely specific beverage to start my day.
If only the rest of my life was as perfect as my coffee order, I think with a frown, as I wait my turn. I check out the other customers in the shop—a few business folks, a teen with the fastest texting thumbs I’ve ever seen, a harried mom jiggling a baby on her hip.
Standing in front of me is a couple holding hands and whispering in each other's ears. Their PDA pokes at my loneliness. I shift my focus to the baby peering at me over her mom’s shoulder. Her enormous blue eyes nudge the minute hand of my biological clock, the loud tick reverberating in my mind.
The snap of a newspaper opening pulls my attention to the back corner, where a lone customer is reading. I’d love to see who is enjoying such an archaic delivery form of information, but the open paper obscures their face. Surely, they must be a kindred spirit to relish ephemera rather than be glued to a glowing screen.
Finishing my perusal, I turn back around, eyeing up the baked goods. I rub the back of my neck as a faint prickle skitters across like a goose walked over my grave. After a few more minutes, I approach the counter to order.
“Hi, I’m Lieshe. I own Grimm across the street. Welcome to the neighborhood!” I say brightly with a smile. Normally I'm not so perky pre-caffeine, but I’m trying to charm my way into their good graces and, hopefully, good Joe. The brooding kid stares blankly as I take in their androgynous appearance, vacant stare, and lip ring.
The coffee shop has a high turnover rate since the owner is kind of an asshole. I'd rather not have to greet new people and explain my order, but it's not worth going somewhere else when this is so close. Convenience is a priority, so I ignore the blank face of the newest employee and place my order.
“May I please have a quad espresso with frothed oat milk, sugar-free toasted marshmallow syrup, and six squirts of coconut stevia?”
“What?” the kid asks in a monotone voice without looking at me. They sound like Eeyore. Sighing, I force myself to refrain from giving them a well-deserved eye roll.
“I’m sorry, is Natalie here? She has my order down. I know it’s not the easiest one.” I offer the apology, attempting to still get the coffee I’m desperate for. Natalie is one of the few baristas tenacious enough to stay put.
She also makes my special drink so impeccably; I haven’t been able to replicate hers at home despite having come up with it to begin with. And the best part? She even gets it started when she sees me coming, like I'm important enough that someone knows my usual.
“No,” comes the curt reply.
Well shit, no plan B. The silence ticks on for a few beats until I repeat myself, careful to give detailed instructions.
“Ok, that’s a quad espresso with frothed oat milk, sugar-free toasted marshmallow syrup, and six squirts of coconut stevia. I know it’s not on the menu. You put the stevia in the oat milk before you froth it, add that to the cup, then pour the espresso on top.”
I point helpfully to the drawer and attempt a friendly smile, which probably looks more like a grimace at this point, and say, “Natalie keeps my stevia in the drawer under the frother.”
My fifteen-minute window to open the shop is closing, but I’m desperate for my morning caffeine fix. This specific concoction I have created over the years is delicious, and I so desperately need it today. I may have stayed up late last night, again, reading a new dark paranormal romance book when I should have been sleeping.
What can I say, I am having a dry streak, and the hot, fantastical antiheroes are really doing it for me lately. Are late-night sinful fantasies and a correct coffee order too much to ask for? Exactly. I deserve both.
The new barista sighs heavily and goes to butcher my order, I am sure. Exasperated, I snag a gluten-free biscotti. I normally avoid simple carbs for breakfast, but my exasperation needs an outlet. Tomorrow, I will start my low-carb kick again. Today is for frustration biscotti.
I nibble it while I wait, but it turns to dust on my tongue without my fabulous latte to dunk it in, so I force myself to hold out for the anticipated cluster of an order. Despite being an asshole, the owner at least stocks gluten-free treats for me, and the coffee beans are fresh-roasted, organic, and always delicious.
At last, the new barista, whose name tag says Charlie, giving me no hint as to their gender, hands me my drink. Charlie could be a purple Martian for all I care, as long as my coffee order is correct.
“Alicia,” Charlie calls out flatly.
I audibly sigh. No one ever gets my name right.
