Morning Disruptions
LEO
I stride into the office, my shoes echoing in the empty hallway. My watch gleams in the morning light, but it’s the only thing punctual today. I curse under my breath. Nathan is missing—again. Nathan, my right-hand man, handles everything from client meetings to coffee orders. He’s the one who keeps my world from falling apart. His absence leaves a hole, a gaping one, in the smooth rhythm of my morning. His desk, situated just outside my office —normally a fortress of organization—now looks like a war zone. Papers are scattered, emails unchecked, and a few missed calls are blinking on his phone. He’s been gone since last week, but the mess makes it feel like he just walked out. He was in a hurry to leave to catch his flight last week and the fact that it looked like he had intended to return frustrates me to no end.
I think back to a recent client crisis—Nathan navigated the situation with a deftness that even impresses me, and that’s not easy to do. Without his quick thinking, we might have lost the account. I rely on him, and it’s only in his absence that I realize how much. His absence jeopardizes crucial meetings, high-stakes events, and valuable investment deals. Every minute without his organization feels like a missed opportunity. He meticulously handles my inbox, filtering through emails, invitations, and business proposals to ensure I don’t overlook essential correspondences. Travel arrangements, financial matters, project coordination— all the small things that add up to big consequences—he manages them effortlessly
Sighing, I rub my temples and decide to grab a coffee to clear my head. There’s a café just around the corner, one I usually avoid due to its clientele—millennials with their laptops, taking up space as if the world revolves around their coffee cups. But today, I have little choice. I need the caffeine, even if I hate the idea of stepping into the hippy-infested den. The door chimes when I enter, and the familiar scent of roasted beans hits me. I scan the room—exactly what I expected. A sea of laptops, mugs, and noise. The crowd looks like a blur of indie fashion and organic snacks, all absorbed in their screens or conversations. Efficiency doesn’t seem to exist in this place. But I stand in line, scrolling through my phone and stewing in frustration. This hippy-dippy millennial nonsense irks me to no end. Nathan should be handling this, ensuring my espresso is ready without me lifting a finger. But here I am, scrolling through my phone, managing my own schedule, and dreading the missed opportunities that pile up with every minute wasted. A sharp cough interrupts my thoughts, drawing my attention up from my phone. My eyes lock on the barista—she’s not what I expected. She’s tall, her eyes a striking green, with a gleam that hints at mischief. She smiles, the kind of smile that tells you she knows something you don’t. As if she senses my irritation, a polite smile graces her lips, but there’s a mischievous glint in those striking emerald eyes. I don’t know if they are that bright or merely contrasted against her night-dark skin. Like the green of a clover, but with the warmth, depth, and texture of the Caribbean Ocean.
“What can I get for you?”
Her eyes. I can’t get over them. Like she could wash over me, and I’d be happy to float in her waters.
"A rich espresso, dark chocolate shavings, a dash of chili pepper, and a touch of smoky cardamom. Fresh mint leaves are a must,” I reply, rattling off the order Nathan would usually handle.
“Ah ha,” she muses, a smirk playing at her lips. “So we meet in person, Mr. Bloomberg.” I blink, unsure of where this is going.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she grins. “Only a monster drinks, what should we call it... this monstrosity, not once but three times a day.”
“I’m not sure we’ve met,” I say coolly, irritated by her familiarity.
“No, but I’m guessing Nathan is your assistant." She’s already moving, a mug in hand, continuing without pause. “He’s in here at least three times a day— about four am, sometimes around nine and always, always around two. I’m not sure the limits of how much espresso a body can handle per day, but I’m sure you exceed it.” Her familiarity with Nathan’s routine, and therefore mine, is unsettling. It’s an invasion of privacy, and I can feel my irritation spike.
“Assuming isn’t part of a barista’s job description,” I reply, my voice clipped. She shrugs, unfazed, and begins working the espresso machine. The sleek machine stands stall, but she effortlessly works the array of buttons, switches, and knobs. She moves with ease, a natural fluidity in her motions that draws my attention. I notice how tall she is—easily five ten or six feet even—her posture perfect, but not stiff. She radiates confidence, and despite myself, I find myself intrigued. Her coiled curls are elegantly gathered into a bun, allowing the natural texture of her hair to shine through, with a few loose tendrils framing her face. She fits in here, this lush sanctuary with potted plants hanging from the ceiling and adorning every available surface. Snake plants, fig trees, bird of paradise, yucca trees, and other plants I don’t recognize create an urban jungle that defies the bustling city just outside the café’s walls. Much like she defies the fact that I should not like her and resent her lack of professionalism. The hum of the machine, the warmth of the café, the lush greenery hanging from the ceiling—it all feels too soft, too welcoming, against the sharpness of my frustration.
“Listen, you’re giving off ‘I-live-at-the-office’ vibes,” she says, her tone softer now. “Does Nathan get you coffee so you can keep your head from exploding?” I’m about to snap back when she places the mug in front of me, mint leaves floating on top. The coffee smells rich, tempting, but I don’t let her see my reaction.
“Again, assumptions isn't in your job description,” I mutter, still staring at her. She pauses, then smiles, all sweetness now.
“Making people smile, though, that’s my job.” I stare at her, suddenly aware of how my frustration is starting to wane. Her voice. Her smile. All of it disarming.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask sharply, trying to regain some semblance of control. She doesn’t immediately answer, instead, glancing toward the ding at the door. A tall, hipster, lean guy with sharp cheekbones and a custom-tailored bowtie pushing a stroller with a dog inside waves from the doorway.
“Aurelia, love!” he shouts, not even fully inside the café. A radiant smile breaks across her face.
“Hi, Mikhel,” she says warmly. A little too warm to be appropriate if I were to give an opinion. But her name. I feel my tongue wanting the feel and taste of it coming between my lips.
“Try it,” she whispers bringing her attention back to me and my coffee. “I think you’ll find it’s just what you need.” I stare at her, taken aback. This girl, with her bright eyes and bold attitude, has disrupted my morning more than Nathan’s absence. She’s confident, unflinching, and entirely too familiar. And yet, there’s something about her—something warm, refreshing, like the mint in my coffee. It’s a nice touch, but if she knows that Nathan picks up my coffee, she should know it needs to be in a to-go cup. She hasn’t charged me for anything and my mind races through when I walked in and remember she hadn’t been putting any of the orders into the Point-of-Sale system. By the amount of money people are throwing in her “give what you can” bucket, there is plenty to cover the coffees and light pastries.
“You are darling among women,” the man says finally reaching us at the counter. He’s just a few inches shorter than me, lean and slender built but I can tell he probably spends time at the gym. He looks like one of those models with the sharp cheek cheekbones and jawline. His custom-colored curly hair is longer on top while the sides and back are perfectly tapered. He’s beautiful in a way that most men aren’t. I clear my throat to remind him of my presence, subtly indicating that he’s disrupting my service. His eyebrow arches at Aurelia before his blue-gray eyes shift to me, seemingly acknowledging my existence, albeit with a hint of appreciation. The sheer lack of respect in this establishment is intolerable. The proximity to my office and the early opening hours is convenient, but I shouldn’t have to deal with this level of incompetence. Making this trip myself has proven increasingly unnecessary. Aurelia, sensing the tension, slides the mug toward me again and points to one of the only empty booths.
“It tastes better when you savor it,” she tells me. “I’ve named it Three Touch based on the hours you have it. I’ve started growing the mint myself.” She points above us, and I notice one of the wonky pots on a shelf has fresh mint growing upside down above her machine. “It’s not anything I’ve made before. Where’d you discover it?”
“Morocco.”
“Oh, that’s new,” she responds with an air of warmth, a radiant smile accompanying her words.
“Thank you,” I mutter, reaching for the mug, but my fingers hesitate. “How much do I owe you?”
“A better attitude,” she retorts, her smile sweet as honey. A queasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I can’t quite shake the sense that she knows too much about my routine. Unable to suppress the rising distaste, I feign a gag by placing a finger between my lips- entirely out of character for me. She bursts into laughter, a bright, tinkling sound that echoes through the café. I maintain a stoic facade, keeping my emotions in check. This girl laughs in the face of danger.
“This one is on me, Mr. Grinch. Thank you for finally gracing us townsfolk with your presence.”
“Finally?”
“I’ve been here for four years, and I’ve been making every concoction anyone brings me. I’ve been wondering about the caffeine fiend who lives on Madison Avenue.”
“I live at Columbus Circle.” She stares at me like I can’t be serious and honestly, I don’t know why I offer up any part of my life to this girl.
“Columbus Circle is known as Billionaire’s Row,” her friend teases. “Living high and mighty?”
“You both shouldn’t concern yourselves about anything about anyone that comes through here,” I say sharply. If Nathan hadn’t already earned his termination, his blatant breach of my privacy would be the final straw. I will be thoroughly wrecking his ability to find a job in my line of work after this.
“I was just referring to the fact you seem to live at the office,” she teases. "You really are a Grinch, huh?”
“Maybe I am,” I say, suddenly not minding so much.
“You’re giving me the impression you’re one of those people who orders their coffee exactly the way they want it, right? The kind who can’t function without a personalized coffee routine.”
I raise an eyebrow, catching her tone. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” She shrugs, a smirk playing at her lips.
“Just that you seem like the type who needs everything just so.” I don’t bother with a retort this time and simply pull out my phone and start typing. I finally glance up, offering a bright smile and show her my screen. On it are the duties of a barista which only include making coffees, teas, and specialty beverages. They are responsible for taking customer orders and payments. They also clean and sanitize their work areas, seating areas, and equipment/tools.
“See there? No assuming,” I remark with a hint of sarcasm.
