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Finn.His name comes to me out of nowhere and it feels like I’ve scratched an itch.
‘It was pretty uneventful. What about you?’ I take this moment to pull three paper cups from a stack next to the coffee machine, while he replies to my question with a story I actually don’t care enough to pay attention to. Customers love using me as a small-talk scratching post and I frankly do not have the energy to reciprocate with anything more than a few well-placedah, reallysandthat sounds funs.
‘—So it makes sense I’m pretty wired already this morning,’ he finishes, intently watching me steam the milk for his drinks. He spots the various snacks on display and analyses them one by one, finally holding up a pack of vanilla wafer biscuits. ‘Have you tried these?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘But go for the hazelnut. Unless you’re allergic, in which case, uh, don’t, I guess.’
He catches my eye and grins at me like I’ve said something funny, grabbing three of the hazelnut flavour instead.
I’ve learnt from my previous mistake of presenting suggestive steamed-milk-heart lattes to men, so I make a concerted effort to pour the milk into an innocuous leaf pattern this time. I can feel his eyes on me as I twist my wrist slightly to form the shape.
He smiles at his phone’s facial recognition when he uses Apple Pay again this morning, and it’s still just as unnecessary as it was the first time, before stacking his wafers in the one empty slot in the cardboard cup holder.
He tentatively reads my name badge. ‘Thanks, uh, Monroe?’
The higher-ups decided our surnames should be on our name tags instead of our first names, because this makes us cool andtrendy. Apparently it’s a great way for people totake us at face valueandnot judge based on our first name. Never mind the fact Mateo is Spanish and only a third of his pentasyllabic surname fits on his badge.
But Finn doesn’t need to know all this, so I simply say, ‘Monroe’s my surname. I’m Ava.’
‘Hi Ava Monroe. I’m Finn.’ The corners of his eyes wrinkle even when he’s not smiling and I get the feeling he’s the kind of person who’s about a millisecond away from laughing at any given moment. He sips his flat white and keeps it close to his nose to inhale the smell. ‘I’ve genuinely been dreaming of this. It reminds me of the coffee I used to get when I lived in Australia.’ With a sigh, he adds, ‘I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, so sorry about that, I guess.’
He leaves the counter with his drinks tray, humming quietly and holding the door open for another customer he crosses paths with as he exits.
When the lunchtime buzz ends and Mateo and I are taking a moment to breathe and rest our vocal cords after hours of nonstop customer service-ing, Carl finally remembers we exist, and his voice carries across the shop. ‘If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.’
I can’t look at him for fear of what he might see in my eyes and instead start tidying the mess on the counter, and suggest Mateo goes to the back to “tidy the stockroom” because the expression on his face could curdle milk and I think he might be about to hit something.
Then, at two-fifteen, like clockwork, a woman with a scowl thatshould be paying rent on her face approaches the till. Like she does every day, she drops her reusable cup onto the counter and holds her card up to the reader in anticipation, without saying a word or looking at me at all. I ring up her regular order of a black Americano and start to prepare the drink.
Something about her sends my blood boiling. Maybe it’s the fact she doesn’t say please or thank you, and evidently thinks I am but a lowly barista with no other skills to offer. Maybe it’s because she always looks like she’s just smelled something rancid. Or maybe it’s her kitten heels. Whatever the reason, I stew over her behaviour almost every time I see her.
She wordlessly takes her drink and I give a pointed, ‘You’re welcome.’
She doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty, and she shuffles towards the sugar and napkin station, never fully lifting her feet from the ground. Without looking her way, I know she’ll take two sugar packets, head to a table by the window, pour one sugar in, and leave the second packet on the table when she leaves. I know this, because she is a creature of habit, much like most of our customers.
City Roast is where people’s routines converge. Favourite tables, Friday afternoon treats, eight o’clock espressos; the tributaries of their daily habits trickle into the delta of our shop. Routines and structure and unbreakable habits where I know what to expect and when to expect it. Where nothing can threaten the balance. For years, I’ve relished this consistency, back at my similar job when I lived with my parents, and now here. But while I used to wrap the mundanity of my days around myself like a blanket, familiar and warm, I can’t help but notice that the wool’s not as soft as it once was.
I’m on the customer side of the counter organising the snacks when the front door opens. I glance behind me out of instinct andimmediately regret it. It’s Finn again and his colleague from that first evening; Julien, or Powerpuff Boy with the cheekbones. After a busy day, the last thing I want is to handle Mr Chatty, but it’s too late for me to go to the stockroom and ask Mateo to swap, so I reluctantly head back to the till.
‘Hey Ava Monroe,’ Finn says brightly as he holds the door for his colleague. His voice carries across the shop and other customers lift their heads from their tables to look at him, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. The pair saunters towards me with the kind of insouciant confidence that only comes with being a tall, attractive man. I steel myself to greet them.
‘I’m personally offended you never told me about this place. You know my thoughts on good coffee,’ Finn says to Julien. ‘I’ve decided it’s my new spot.’
They’re finally at the counter, both leaning their hips against it like its sole purpose is to support their weight. Julien quirks one corner of his mouth and looks at me with come-hither eyes. I am, once again, unperturbed. Though I’m starting to wonder if these are just his normal eyes.
‘Finn’s been going on and on about this coffee,’ he says in a lazy drawl. ‘He’s looking for a new job, so if you’ve got any openings, I’m pretty sure he’d pay youto hire him.’
‘I haven’t been goingon and on.Although,’ Finn stops to think, eyes widening as an idea comes to him, ‘do you and Mateo get free drinks?’
‘We do,’ I reply smoothly, ‘one of the many perks of the job.’
‘What are the others?’ Finn asks, eagerly leaning forward, somehow defying the laws of physics and getting impossibly close to me even with a whole counter between us.
‘Well,’ I say, wracking my brain for a polite answer that doesn’t come. ‘I do really like that I don’t work weekends.’
‘The customers aren’t a perk?’ He looks carefully at me, likehe’s trying to gauge whether I’ll play along.
Julien joins in too. ‘I bet it’s especially fun when they come in and interrupt your day by asking pointless questions you feel inclined to answer politely rather than truthfully.’
