The Undoing

“This one has a lovely view of the park,” the realtor said. Danielle, I think her name was. Denise maybe? I don’t know, who cares. “And did I mention—”

“I’ll take it.” I cut her off. I wasn’t in the mood to sit through another one of her rehearsed lines about why this apartment was ‘special.’ It was fine. Spacious, two bedrooms—good enough for me.

Grove Hills was extremely well-priced, not that I cared. It wasn’t my money anyway, and if I had it my way, I’d pick the most unnecessarily expensive option just to piss off my father. But there was nothing extravagant about this odd little town my mother seemed to love so much. After barely staying in touch since my freshman year of college—avoiding her more than I’d like to admit, just because it was easier that way—I figured it was time to be a little less of a stranger in her life. Step one was moving in nearby.

“Oh, well wonderful!” She fumbled with the papers in her hands as if she’d just won a prize. “This is a really great neighborhood, I’m sure you’ll love it here,” she added once she’d asked me to ‘sign here’ about a dozen times.

My new apartment was right in the center of town, facing a row of houses that looked like they were out of a suburban dream. Trimmed lawns, white picket fences, almost uniform in size, even I had to admit they were calming to the eye. But the serenity of the town is not why I ended up here. I had simply had enough of crashing at James’ apartment. Even though he was my oldest friend, I couldn’t stomach another minute of him and his girlfriend’s PDA. I had no idea what it was about affection that unsettled me so much, but I was never a fan.

The biggest perk to my new home was that it was only one story above a coffee shop; and nothing sounded better right now than caffeine. I had developed a dependence on it during my time in college, somewhere between the late nights I had to cram for tests and the many mornings I had to nurse raging hangovers, it had become a necessity for me.

When I made the short trip downstairs, I was met with the inside of Jane’s Café. Small, warm and somewhat eclectic—it seemed like the kind of place where every conversation was a little too personal. The overpowering scent of coffee battled with that of the freshly baked pastries, making me crave both in equal measure. Unfortunately for me though, it looked like the entire population of little Grove Hills was standing in line in front of me.

After waiting for an eternity, I was next in line. Right behind the human embodiment of a fucking migraine. The girl in front of me was at first too lost in thought to realize it was her turn, and after the barista yelled, “next!” a second time, she quickly stepped forward and began ordering.

“Can I get a latte please, extra strong, triple shot, with oat milk. Wait no can you please make that an Americano? But with a splash of oat milk. Just a splash. And extra strong please.” She breathed. “Also iced!” The barista quickly got to work before the girl interrupted. “Wait! Can I actually have the milk separately? I’m so sorry, Annie knows my order. I usually don’t take up this much time, and I haven’t had to recite it in so long,” she giggled nervously but it did nothing to ease my annoyance with her. “I just—”

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath, unable to control myself any longer. I blamed the lack of sleep and the lack of caffeine.

“Excuse me?” She turned her head quickly to look at me.

Okay so maybe it wasn’t under my breath.

“Can I help you?” I gave her an impassive expression.

“You said something.” She had her hands on her hips now, like she had the moral high ground.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I heard you!”

“Well then, what did I say?”

“I’m not sure.” Her face was still annoyed, but a bit more uncertain. “But it sounded rude.”

“Well maybe because it’s taking you fucking forever to order a cup of coffee and there’s other people in line who have been waiting patiently for a half hour.”

“So you did say something.” She looked pleased with herself. I glared at her in response.

“Okay, I’m sorry I held everyone up, I’m usually in and out, but the usual barista isn’t here,” she explained, wrapping her cardigan around herself, her tone sheepish.

“Whatever, just please...” I gestured towards the cashier, urging her to hurry the hell up.

She turned without another word. “That will be all, please. Thanks,” she said to the barista with a smile in her voice, then made sure to pin me with a glare as she left the line.

It wasn’t just the annoying repetition of her requests or her inability to make up her mind that grated on me. It was the almost instinctual need people had to complicate something as simple as ordering a fucking coffee. The endless adjustments, the anxious pauses, the unspoken need to feel unique by customizing a drink that she’d be done with in fifteen minutes. Even the fucking barista seemed perfectly content to play along, as if this was some sacred ritual worth accommodating.

I was finally handed my coffee. But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just tangled with someone who wasn’t merely an irritating stranger, but a symbol that this new chapter of my life—moving to this town, starting fresh—wasn’t going to be easy at all.