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“Medium?”
“No. Large.”
“Right. Large.” She taps again. “Cream?”
“Black.”
“Sugar?”
I look at her. “Black.”
“Right. Sorry.” More tapping. “Any pastries?”
“No.”
“We have really good cinnamon rolls.”
“No.”
“Muffins?”
“No.”
“Cookies?”
“What part of coffee did I make confusing?”
Her mouth snaps shut.
I watch her.
She's nervous. Not normal customer-service nervous.
Me nervous.
She knows something.
“Okay,” she says quickly. “One large coffee. With cream.”
“No. Black.”
Her eyes widen. “Black. Sorry. I meant black.”
I narrow my eyes.
She gives me a nervous smile, then looks past me. But not at the front door. She’s looking toward the bathroom door.
My instincts sharpen.
“Name for the order?”
I don't answer.
Her fingers hover above the screen. “Sir?”
Why the fuck does she need my name for black coffee?
I look around.
