Chapter 1
When the life you imagined for yourself seems to grow only in your imagination...what then?
I have things going for me that I begged God for - perhaps a few years ago, maybe even days - and still I am ungrateful. My life and the things I ask for seem redundant. I loathe the routine I have to follow--being productive to hate myself as little as possible.
Today I have not followed this routine. Perhaps why this day took more from me than I had.
Besides the constant requirement to interact with others, I do fancy my own coffee shop. This one particularly. It is in the correct location-blessed with the visit of the sun's rays often. The smal bell above the door rings. The morning rush begins."Good morning, can I please have one large latte, no sugar." The customer doesn't look up from their phone.
"Just the one?" I ask.
"Actually, make that two. And add three sugars to one of them." He adds, studying the paintings and quotes plastered all over like an art gallery. Never giving me the displeasure of eye contact.
"So two large lattes, one with three sugars?" I ask.
"Yes."
I tap the order into the register. "Anything else?"
The customer says nothing. His eyes fall back onto the phone in his left hand. I wait a second, then say, "That'll be eight fifty."
Silence.
I glance at the line behind them. "Next customer."
"Please make one on the go — the one without the sugar," he adds before stepping aside. And striding towards the sun's favourite corner.
"Hello. What would you like?" I ask the next customer.
"Oh hi, just one cappuccino on the go, please." She states politely.
I rubbed exhaustion from my droopy eyes, "Which size exactly?"
She stares at the display for a second. "Just normal."
I hate how my life — my job, I mean — revolves around the satisfaction of these customers, from familiar faces to new ones. I despise myself even more for how I spill onto people I care nothing about, people whose thoughts of me I will never know.
"Could you pass the latte without sugar to the barista who made my drink earlier? Tell her it's plain, so she can add however much sugar she likes."
"What's her name?" he asks, staring toward the back, trying to catch Jas's attention.
I want to tell him I have no interest in playing his Cupid. This angers me more than it should. I feel as though he is targeting me because of how I dismissed him earlier. Instead, I force a smile and say, "Please do that yourself."
Anxiety seeps through my palms in the form of sweat. I fear I might be wearing my jealousy on my face along with my smile.
He looks at me, squinting. He stares at my badge, then walks out, leaving the coffee on the counter.
My face burns. I glance around the shop — no one is watching. The moment is mine alone.
I consider telling Jas. I don't. Instead I empty the coffee into the sink and wipe the counter until it is clean.
