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Finn packs his stuff neatly in his bag, leaving it on the table before taking tentative steps towards Dylan and me. ‘Literally no one would believe you could be a damsel in distress.’ He mutters something that sounds a lot like, ‘You’re causingmedistress.’
‘Well, let’s hope we don’t have to test that theory,’ I reply. He waits with one hand at the end of the counter, pretending to be casual but ultimately coming off extremely suspicious. ‘You a vampire or something? I hereby grant you permission to come back here. But wash your hands first. With soap.’
I catch the tail end of an eye roll.
Once my students have both washed their hands, they stand to attention slightly to my right. In the five seconds it took for me to pluck a bottle of milk from the fridge, Finn somehow procured and tied the old apron that Mateo had haphazardly stashed in the cubby under the till on his last day. I can’t be bothered to fight him on it.
‘This milk expires today so I don’t care about using it for practice, but I’d rather not waste coffee beans so I’m going to reuse some old grounds and hope for the best.’
‘Secondhand coffee.’ Finn nods sagely. ‘Put that on the menu.’
I tamp some used grounds and brew a few shots in preparation. ‘Right, so, different drinks require different types of milk, but we’re going to focus on latte milk today.’ I pour milk into the jug, just below where the metal protrudes at the spout. ‘This is usually the amount of liquid you need. Some milks make better microfoam than others. Whole milk is the easiest to work with, while something like almond milk is kind of a bitch to steam properly.’ I open my mouth to keep going but Finn has raised his hand like we’re in class. ‘Yes, Finlay?’
‘Why is whole milk easier to work with?’
‘It has a higher fat content. The chemical composition is better balanced to make the shiny foam we’re aiming for. Generally, the creamier it is, the less finicky it is to use.’ I turn my head to meet his eyes. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Yep. Thanks.’ He gives me a thumbs up and I have to try extremely hard not to make fun of him for it.
I settle back into position. ‘What we’re doing is adding air to the milk, and in doing so, heating it up. Let me show you.’ I go to turn a knob on the machine so that it’ll release a burst of steam but feel Finn leaning over my shoulder to watch. ‘Finn, I can practically hear your heartbeat. Back up a bit.’
He mumbles an apology and I start steaming the milk, talking them through the difference between the sharp tearing sounds at the start and the lower rumble as the wand moves deeper into the milk, telling them to pay less attention to how it looks and more attention to how it sounds and feels.
I tap the jug on the counter to release any bigger air bubbles, swirl it a few times and then lift it to my swamp-water espresso. I explain each step, every flick of the wrist and, even with the secondhand espresso, the art isn’t bad. ‘Who wants to try?’
Turns out this is not a skill you can perfect in one evening. On the plus side, Dylan’s now made not one, but two near-perfect cappuccinos. We’re meant to be making lattes, but a win is a win.
A few attempts later, the three of us stand over her and Finn’s most recent cups, peering at the shapes in the milk.
‘I feel like I’m cloud-gazing.’ Finn turns his mug to look at it from a new angle.
‘That’s a really good hippo, if it’s any consolation,’ Dylan says helpfully.
‘You know what,’ he lifts the cup to inspect it up close, ‘thatisconsolation, actually.’
‘I’m going to wash some mugs up,’ Dylan says, picking up as many as she can carry to the sink without spilling the contents all over the floor. ‘There’s no point running the dishwasher just for these.’
I look back at the few remaining latte attempts. Two of them are essentially just a mass of indeterminate foam, but the third contains an unintentionally intricate design. It’s almost impressive how perfect the shape is.
‘That’s—’ Finn starts to say, grabbing my forearm and pointing at the mug.
‘Don’t.’ I put a finger up to silence him, wriggling out of his grip. I refuse to laugh at something like this. I am not twelve.
‘I’m not completely depraved, you see it too, right?’
I bite my lip, avoiding eye contact as best I can. This isn’t funny.
‘See what?’ Dylan asks as she comes to collect the final cups. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘Oh my god. That belongs in an anatomy book.’
That’s all it takes for a snort to squeeze through the dam I’ve built, and then the branches give way entirely and Finn and I aresnickering like school kids at the back of the classroom after finding illicit graffiti on the table. Apparently we are, in fact, twelve.
Once Dylan’s back at the sink and the dregs of our laughter spill out of us in quiet chuckles, I say, ‘I thought you were meant to be the mature one.’
‘When did we decide that?’ He wiggles his nose to adjust his glasses as he shoves his sleeves higher up his arms.
‘When you were a fully functioning adult while I just flailed about in the shallow end.’ I press my hip against the counter. ‘I bet you even know how to do your taxes.’
‘I do, actually,’ he says after a pause. He wipes his hands on his stolen apron, tightens it, then adds, ‘Okay, I’m gonna try one more.’
