Working weekends at a café isn’t supposed to feel like survival mode. But one woman’s rage turned my simple shift into a public spectacle I’ll never forget. Too bad she didn’t see it coming.
My weekend shifts at Morning Roast Café weren’t exactly glamorous, but they helped me pay for school supplies and the occasional midnight burger run. Most customers were decent, though some seemed to think our little coffee shop was the front lines of a caffeine war. Still, I’d learned to smile through complaints, fake laughs, and micro-aggressions.
I thought I’d seen it all — until she walked in. It was just after ten, that dead zone between morning rush and lunch. I was wiping down the counter when she strutted in, all heels and attitude.
Her sunglasses were still on indoors like she was shielding herself from the mediocrity around her. She scanned the café like a disapproving queen. “One medium Americano,” she said, not looking up from her phone.
“Sure! Would you like room for cream?” I asked, punching in her order. “Hot,” she snapped.
“Make sure it’s hot.”
I nodded, already prepping the machine. “Comin’ right up.”
I handed it over a minute later, steam rising lazily from the cup. She took one sip, and then it started.
“What is this?” she snarled, holding the cup out like it was laced with poison. “Americano,” I said, blinking. “Made it fresh just now.
That’s how it always comes out of the machine.”
She sneered. “Figured they’d hire clueless kids. You probably can’t even spell temperature.”
My ears burned.
I opened my mouth, then shut it. She slammed the cup on the counter so hard that the lid popped off and droplets flew like angry little birds. “This is pathetic,” she barked.
“I’m not paying for this joke.”
“I…I’m sorry,” I said. “If you’d like, I can make you another—”
“I SAID I’m not paying!” Her voice cut through the café like a car alarm. Heads turned.
“Call the manager. Now.”
I stood frozen. My stomach twisted, humiliated under the stares of strangers.
But I wasn’t panicking. Not really. Because I already knew what I was going to do.
She leaned in, venomous and triumphant. “Do you even have a manager, or is this just a daycare with a coffee machine?”
Right on cue, the swinging door behind me creaked open. James stepped out, a hint of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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