De Café

The Starbucks manager is upset today. Not for any particular reason, though those unfinished quarterly reports are looming on the counter next to the stale iced coffee, those unifinished quarterly reports, just pieces of paper, so small and seemingly benign, yet with such an insidious and evil influence. It doesn't help that it's a Wednesday-- days of the week, by virtue of themselves, have that kind of effect on him, the very worst days always being Monday and Wednesdays-- and that Marcus never responded to his Facebook posting. But that's another story. There's really, like I said, no good reason.

And a young woman at the counter is being obtuse about her order. She won't use the proper coffee terminology (she keeps saying "large" instead of "venti," and she even said EXpresso), and she's looking at the menu board as if that will give her any resemblance of a clue.

"Yeah, uhh... I'm gonna need a large... no, a medium... uh... what's a Machado?"

The Starbucks manager is tapping his fingers on the keypad, adjusting his collar, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, looking around, licking his lips. There's really no reason to be upset. No reason to let one ridiculous customer ruin your morning, he says to himself. Breathe. Just breathe.