The Barista Incident

This was not full blown panic; it lacked even those tenants of a mildly uncomfortable situation. A well adjusted person would simply query “I’m sorry?” and have their concerns addressed. But I stood there, statuesque, wracking my brain for all the relevant questions a barista might have asked. Cream? No, I had specified black. Large? I had said that. Did she want me to say Venti or some shit? I refuse; all those words mean the same thing.

“Your name, sir?” she half-scolded, staring at me. Right. Name.

“Tim,” I said, lying so she wouldn’t be able to misspell it.

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