The Coffee Shop

     "Oh my gosh, what a day! I cannot wait to get off work.  I'm so exhausted I am going to pass out in two   seconds as soon as I get home."

     "It hasn't really been that busy today, Elisa. Why are you so tired?"

     "Ugh, my roommates were up until three in the morning playing their stupid video games again.  I could not sleep."

     "Oh, that sucks. Well, I hope you get some sleep tonight."

     "Thanks Mariah! See you tomorrow."

     Walking through the double doors to the back room which housed our industrial size refrigerators, sinks, and dishwashers, I thought about that day.  Mariah was right, it hadn't really been that busy.  And I only worked a five hour shift.  But with the hour of sleep I got, it seemed like the day was never going to end.  The lines never seemed to fall below three people.  One lady even made me cry.  It was the first time I had ever cried on the job.  She had a really complicated drink order, which I usually have no problem with.  It's not that they are really all that complicated, it just takes a couple extra seconds to get out the soy milk instead of the regular 2% and sometimes that annoys the baristas.  I poured the soy milk into the pitcher and carefully began to steam it.  This was my favorite part.  I always made sure the steam wand was tucked right below the surface of the milk, creating an airy, frothy foam that tasted delicious atop the decadent vanilla lattes and dry cappuccinos. Once the foam had reached the perfect consistency, I placed the steel pitcher on the ledge, letting the wand dive deeper into the milk, heating it to the consummate temperature which happened to be the perfect degree for drinking.  As the milk began to heat, I felt a sneeze coming on.  I took a step back and turned my head, burying my nose deep into my shoulder making sure that in no way were my germs getting near that succulent treat.  I'm pretty sure my hands were at least three feet away from the blow.

     "Excuse me, are you going to tell her to go wash her hands?"  The customer rudely asks my co-worker.  Um, hello lady. I'm standing right here.  I can hear you.  He just looked at me blankly, not sure if he should laugh or demand that I go wash my hands.

     "Well," politely yet nonchalantly I said, "I didn't sneeze into my hands so it's okay.  Thanks for your concern though."  I should have asked her if she wanted me to wash my shoulder.

     She then started to throw a fit about how my hands were dirty and had germs and that I needed to go wash them right away because if I didn't, she was going to demand a talk with our manager.  I honestly don't even remember what she said exactly.  I just knew that she was another entitled customer, invoking what little power she had on the pitiful baristas who were forced to make her coffee with a contrived smile.  And I had one hour of fucking sleep last night.

     I ran to the back room and pushed through those doors just as the cold tears of regret began to stream down my face.  I don't need this shit.  I have a college degree and I'm stuck here making coffee, assumed by customers to be some kind of idiot because I wear an apron and serve people all day from behind a counter.  For all they knew, I could have been some self-made millionaire who worked at a coffee shop because I truly enjoyed the human interaction.  The sweet and spicy aroma of the coffee that fumigated my senses day after day.  The romanticism of the dim lighting and the soothing sounds of cool jazz playing in the background.  The connections people made in the simple yet gratifying ambiance that the coffee shop subtly provided.  Here, seeds were planted everyday in people's minds.  They fell in love here- with an idea, with a person, with their life.  I enjoyed watching that.