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The first thing Steve saw when he walked into the coffee shop was green. Plants on the counter, flowery vines in hanging baskets, leaves sticking up from every corner of the room. It was like walking into a jungle – the foliage, for one thing, but also the cascade of smooth jazz that seemed to emanate from every direction. He found himself glancing around for the band like a guilty-footed kid who had burst into church in the middle of the sermon, but the handful of customers were staring at their laptops or chatting with casual ease, and the screech of an espresso machine punctuated the music without much thought to caution. Nobody seemed to have noticed him enter, except for the barista at the register, who flashed him a quick smile before going back to wiping the counter. Steve closed the door behind him.
“It’s still raining out there, huh?” asked the barista, as soon as Steve reached the counter. His eyes flitted down to Steve’s now soaking-wet jeans.
“Yeah,” said Steve sheepishly. He tried wiping some of the water out of his hair, but just ended up with a wet hand. Yikes. And the jeans, too, he really should have checked the weather before he left the house… Oh, well. Nothing he could do about that now.
The barista was still watching him with what looked like eyes that were trying really hard not to laugh. Warm eyes. Eyes that seemed to find something intriguing about him, and Steve dearly hoped that that something was not just the fact that he clearly didn’t own an umbrella. The absurdity of the situation swept over him: this clean-shaven barista with his short brown hair swept back just-so, in his clean black apron, amidst the smooth wood paneling and colorful ceramic potted plants and shiny espresso machinery of this high-end cafe – and Steve, standing in front of him in a soggy fleece jacket, probably with dark circles under his eyes, dripping all over the floor. Well… in for a penny, in for a pound. Steve had a mission here: caffeine. The ends justified the means.
Steve unzipped his jacket and patted his hand dry on his shirt with as much dignity as he could handle, ignoring the damp spots up and down his sides. The barista didn’t need to know that his coat was as ineffectual as he clearly was.
“So, what can I get started for you?” asked the barista, finally letting his mouth flash into a smile to match his eyes.
“Just a latte, please.”
“For here, or…?” The barista’s eyes swiveled over to the rain-streaked windows, as if daring Steve to say “to go.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Steve quickly. “For here.”
“Is whole milk okay?”
“Um… Is that what it usually comes with?”
“Well, we also have almond milk, soy milk, coconut milk, and nonfat.”
“Oh.” Steve blinked. “Yeah, whole milk is fine.”
“Perfect. And do you want any syrup with that?”
Steve sustained a full moment of eye contact with the unfazed barista before breaking. “...Okay, so I’ve never actually had a latte before,” he confessed.
“Oh!” The barista’s face suddenly lit up as if somebody had injected coffee straight into his bloodstream. Steve’s hopes lifted sympathetically. “No problem! So a latte is just two shots of espresso, plus steamed milk. Flavoring is optional but we’ve got a ton of options back here” – he gestured behind him to the line of what Steve had initially assumed were decorative bottles of liquor – “I’d say hazelnut, vanilla, and caramel are probably the most popular. Oh, and pumpkin spice, of course, but we won’t have that until September.”
Steve’s eyes lingered on the overwhelming rainbow of bottles as his brain did a few halfhearted reboots, before he realized that the barista was waiting for a response. “Uh, just surprise me,” he managed, tearing his eyes away from the syrups. The barista grinned.
“I’ll make it really good, trust me,” he promised. “That’ll be… five-fifty.”
“Right.” Steve peeled his coat pocket open and fished around for his wallet as the barista started pressing buttons on the espresso machine.
Shit.
A loud screeching filled the room as he patted his jeans pockets, front and back, then wiped his hands on his shirt again and began frantically re-searching his coat.
“Uhh…” he said, stalling for time.
The barista looked up from whatever he was pouring into a mug, then frowned. “You okay?”
“I just… I think I left my wallet at home.”
“Oh.” The barista paused mid-stir.
“Sorry,” blurted Steve. “I’m just gonna… Yeah…” He inched backwards.
“No, it’s okay, it happens –”
“–thanks anyway! Bye!”
“Wait, but I already started your coffee!” yelled the barista as Steve made a dash for the door, causing a couple customers to look up. “Just hang on a sec–”
It was too late. Steve was already in motion. He shut the door behind him, and with it, the sounds of piano and swing-band-bass and the chatter of conversation were suddenly sucked away. The cold air hit him full-force, and he stepped straight into the downpour before remembering to zip up his jacket. Whatever. He was already soaked through anyway.
He waited until he was a few blocks away before pulling out google maps and typing in his new address. So much for first impressions.