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Nate’s idly spinning a top upon the counter when he hears the familiar voice. His eyes fall on the man with blond hair—Mihael, he knows his name is—talking furiously into his phone, as usual. He almost bumps into a woman in front of him. She shoots him a dirty look as she almost drops her drink but Mihael doesn’t even bother acknowledging her. He just continues onwards, towards the counter. Nate scowls.
“It’s him again,” Nate’s colleague, Cassie, nudges him with her shoulder. She has an amused smile on her face. “You want me to take his order this time?”
Nate stops spinning the top abruptly and shoots her a look. “That’s not necessary. I’ll take the order.”
Cassie simply looks curious. “You hate him, Nate.” She says. Nate simply shrugs in response. Cassie shakes her head, the amused smile still in place as she moves over to take a customer’s order.
Nate simply smiles politely—a perfectly fake smile—when Mihael approaches, slamming a few bills on to the counter. He doesn’t even acknowledge Nate as he pulls the phone away from his ear, mutters his order and then he’s back to talking on the phone once more. Nate drops his smile and eyes the money.
“Keep the change,” Mihael says dismissively, looking at Nate, catching him completely off-guard.
“I don’t need your charity,” Nate mutters under his breath. He knows Mihael’s not listening. He suddenly feels someone slap his arm and he jumps, looking to his side. Cassie’s standing beside him, a reproving look on her face. She shoots a meaningful look in Mihael’s direction—who could care less about the two employees, still speaking into his phone— then looks at Nate and mouths ‘don’t-be-stupid-just-take-the-damn-money’ and then she turns around, probably to make her customer’s drink.
Nate frowns. He doesn’t want to keep the change. Not this man’s, anyway. Yes, he’s taken up this job because he needs the money, and if this was anyone else, Nate wouldn’t have even thought twice before keeping the money. However, this is not just any other customer. This is Mihael, someone Nate, for some unexplainable reason, positively dislikes.
As a barista, Nate has had to deal with a variety of customers. He’s dealt with the reasonably nice, overly nice (they’re always so enthusiastic about every little thing, it makes Nate nauseous), flirtatious (he once had someone ask him out to coffee and Nate simply stared, not saying a word, until they’d realized their mistake and then sheepishly grabbed their drink, walking out from there), he’s also dealt with a bunch of rude customers, yelling their heads off for their drinks not being perfect. Honestly, he’s dealt with a lot of people, but if there is one thing he can say for certain, it’s that he absolutely cannot stand Mihael. There’s just something about the way Mihael just walks in, doesn’t even acknowledge the employees working at the counter, simply orders them. He acts like they’re beneath him, that they’re not even worth enough to warrant a look from him, the way he’s more focused on his stupid phone conversations and it just never sits well with Nate. He can handle rude customers, because at least they’re still giving you their full attention. Nate cannot stand indifference.
He tries to listen in on Mihael’s conversation as he enters his order, putting in the amount into the cash register, reluctantly putting the change into the pocket on his apron. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He hears Mihael’s angry voice as he picks up the receipt. He cringes. This man has absolutely no decency. He decides he isn’t interested in Mihael’s conversation anymore. All he can seem to pick up on are cuss words, and he’s amazed that the person on the other end hasn’t hung up on him yet.
He picks up a Styrofoam cup and marker and walks up to Mihael. He slides the receipt towards him and asks, “Name?” He, of course, knows Mihael’s name, but it’s a part of his job to ask for a customer’s name, no matter how regular they may be, so he does.
“Mihael,” Mihael answers, pocketing the receipt.
Nate only nods. With the marker, he scribbles a name on to the cup. When he’s done, he smiles to himself. He passes over the cup to Cassie, relaying Mihael’s drink order to her. Cassie looks at the name on the cup and snorts loudly and walks off.
Mihael shoots a surprised look in her direction but other than that, he says nothing. He goes back to his conversation.
Nate only moves on to the next customer, while Mihael shifts a little to his right, leaning his back against the counter, waiting for his drink.
-x-
When Mihael’s name is called out, he heads over to collect his drink. He simply nods at the man who hands him over his cup, telling him to enjoy his drink. He shifts his phone to the other hand so that he can hold on to the drink with his dominant hand. He’s about to turn around and leave when his eyes fall on the cup. He stares at the name written on it. He blinks once. He blinks twice. He hasn’t read it wrong. Over the years, he’s had people misspell his name in a dozen different ways. He’s used to that. But literally no one has spelt his name in this manner. Ever. This is just rude and offensive.
In black, cursive writing is scrawled one word: Mihell. Not Mihael, not even Mihail. MIHELL.
What the fuck?
This is probably the fourth time his name has been misspelt at this coffee shop. Belatedly, he remembers having the same barista take his order each time; the white haired man, whose name he’s never bothered to learn, but who he’s often considered—only to himself—to be attractive. The first two times, he’d let it pass because it was common for his name to be misspelt as Michael, although how someone had gotten Michelle from Mihael, he did not know. Still, it wasn’t like he’d paid attention. He’d only realized it once he was halfway to his workplace. It would make no sense to throw a fit over it. The third time, he’d been too distracted to care. He’d only spotted the misspelt name once he’d thrown the cup into the trash bin, the side with the name written facing up.
This time, however, he’s still in the premises. And this time the name written is very offensive. He is suddenly very annoyed. He ends the phone call—not like there was anything productive going on to begin with, just mindless speculations over trivial matters— and puts the phone into his pocket. He turns on the spot and walks up to the barista—the pretty white haired man—and bangs his free hand on the counter, trying to grab his attention.
The barista—Nate River, that’s what his name tag says—looks up at Mihael’s scowling face. He raises an eyebrow in question. “Can I help you?” He asks coolly.
“Yes, actually,” Mihael says, gritting his teeth. He puts the cup down on the counter and slides it towards Nate, turning it around so that the side with the name written is facing Nate. “What the hell is that?”
Nate glances at the cup for a long moment, then looks up at Mihael. “That’s your drink, sir.”
“I know that’s my drink,” Mihael snaps, “but what’s with the name?”
Nate considers. “Is that not how your name’s spelt, sir?” He looks too innocent and Mihael hates it. He has the sudden urge to lean across and pull the man by his collar and shake him threateningly. He resists the temptation.
“No, that is not how you spell my name.” Mihael answers, calmer this time. He knows he’s garnering an audience. The last thing he wants is to get into trouble for harassment of a poor, helpless employee. That will never reflect well on him.
“Noted,” Nate says. Mihael continues to glare at him and so he asks, “What?”
“Why do you hate me?” Mihael asks. “I mean, I’m your customer. All you have to do is take my order, write my name—spelt correctly, let me add—and give me my drink. That’s all.”
“I do not hate you,” Nate responds. “It was just an honest mistake.”
“No it wasn’t,” Mihael snaps, “one time is a mistake. This is the fourth time you’ve misspelt my name. I let it slide the first three times, but today, today you were just outright rude. So my question stands, what the fuck do you have against me?”
Nate loses some of his composure. He knows his colleagues are watching, most of the customers are watching, and he knows his manager is probably watching, too. He can’t be rude, not directly anyway. He doesn’t want to lose the job for being rude, even if he was trying to be so to Mihael. His manager doesn’t need to know that. So he says, calmly, “You’re very rude.”
Mihael sputters. “I’m rude? What the hell? I’ve never even spoken to you. I simply give my order and leave and I’m the one that’s rude?”
“Yes,” Nate says, voice rising just the slightest bit, “You act like we exist solely to fulfill your orders, like we’re somehow not worth even a second glance. You don’t even bother to be polite enough to pay attention to what we’re asking, just constantly busy on that stupid phone of yours. Indifference is rudeness.”
Mihael stares blankly for a moment. He’s rude for not making conversation with Nate? He shakes his head. “Look, I’m a busy guy, alright? I have work to do, so all I really want to do is come in, grab my drink and leave. I’m sorry if I don’t have time to socialize.”
“No one’s asking you to socialize,” Nate mutters.
Mihael’s eyes fall on the blonde woman—Cassie, her name tag says— next to Nate. She’s staring wide-eyed at him. “You,” he says and she squeaks. “Do you think I’m rude because I do not speak to anyone and am always busy on the phone, leaving aside the fact that those phone calls are extremely important?”
Cassie shakes her head quickly. “Of course not!” She says. Nate shoots her a dirty look, one that clearly says ‘you’re a traitor’ and she flinches. “I mean, it’s nice to have your customer make some polite conversation, but if they don’t, it doesn’t really make them rude.”
Mihael shoots a triumphant look at Nate. “See? Not rude. Can you stop misspelling my name now? If you want, I can write it down on a piece of paper and give it to you, so that you have no trouble remembering it.” He says. He actually reaches out for the marker and a sheet of paper on the counter and scribbles his name on to it in big bold letters. Nate only stares at it. “If not, I’ll be tempted to go visit another coffee shop from tomorrow.”
“Please do,” Nate says quietly. He picks up the sheet of paper, folds it in half and slides it to the side.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Nate says. “I apologize for misspelling your name.”
Mihael only nods. In all this confrontation, he’d completely forgotten about his drink, which has now gone cold. He glances at it and frowns. “I’ll need another drink.”
“You’ll have to pay for it then,” Nate informs.
“Why? This is your fault. If anything, I should be getting compensation.” Mihael argues. “I’m not paying.”
Nate is about to say something when Cassie interrupts, saying, “Sir, you don’t have to pay. I’ll go get you your drink!”
Mihael crosses his arms across his chest and nods. He waits at the counter, staring at Nate. Nate stares back, his face betraying absolutely nothing. He only looks away when he has a customer. A few minutes later, Cassie approaches Mihael and personally hands him his drink. There’s no name written on the cup, but that’s still better than whatever Nate had written. He gives Nate one last angry look and stalks off, sipping his drink as he does, pulling his phone out once more and dialing a number.
All Nate hears is Mihael saying “Hello, sorry I got caught up with something,” into the phone and then he’s exiting the coffee shop, the door closing shut behind him.
-x-
The next day, when Mihael enters the coffee shop, he’s not talking on his phone. He approaches the counter, waits patiently for someone to take his order. Unsurprisingly, it is Nate that meets him on the opposite end.
Mihael says, in an almost mocking voice, “Good morning, Nate,” before proceeding to give his order. Nate says nothing as he proceeds to note down Mihael’s order, takes the money, cashes it in and hands the change back with the receipt to Mihael. He says nothing as he proceeds to write down Mihael’s name on the cup and then hands it over to Cassie who simply takes it over to the one making the drinks.
When Mihael’s name is called out by Cassie, he takes his drink and with a glance over his shoulder, he calls out, mockingly again, “Thanks, Nate!” and then he leaves the coffee shop with his drink.
It is only when Mihael reaches the subway station, patiently waiting for his train that he finally turns the cup around in his hand and stares at the name written on it.
Meekhell.
Fucking shit.