I wrote this before I read the piece (which I can't find) about editors fleeing in terror from coffee shop pieces, so forgive me if it's been done.
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She was always friendly when no one else was around to see it. I told Chris about it once and he didn’t believe me.
“You’re making it up,” he’d said. “I swear she burns my milk on purpose.”
She never burnt my milk. Not once, and if the shot ran too long or too fast she’d dump it out and start over until it was perfect.
I’d try to start a conversation and ask her how things were, like I knew about her life. I knew nothing except that she made great espresso, and she liked art. The walls of her shop were adorned with a constant rotation of local artists’ work.
My favorite piece was in the impressionist style, a woman sitting on the bench at the market, her foot kicked in the air somewhat; the sandal on her foot hanging on by the toes. She ate ice cream out of a cup, while her little daughter sat next to her; a vague, faceless, not completely formed being.
“That’s not her daughter,” she said when I told her how much I liked the piece, “The proportions are all wrong.”
“Couldn’t that be the point?” I asked, and she shrugged and held out her hand for the price of the drink. I didn’t want to hold the line up so I paid her.
On my way out the door she said, “It’s not her daughter, it’s a doll,” loud enough so that the whole café could hear.
I asked Chris, when I saw him again. “I don’t go there anymore. I got tired of her messing my drink up.”
“Where do you go now?”
“The one down the street with the drive-through.” Chris said. “I’m pretty sure she burned my milk on purpose.” He added.
“Have you seen the painting?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Art is silly, especially that half baked, amateur, café trash. Anyone can do that. A woman’s body, now that’s art.”
He nudged me with his elbow and winked. Chris was a coworker, not a buddy, and my politeness was out of convenience. He was the only other guy in my age bracket where I worked, so we’d formed a loose acquaintance based on common experience.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked, since the ball was rolling, why not.
“She always wears though Capri pants, right? The ones that fit,” he made a curving shape in the air with his hand. “I noticed that if I stood on the end, where they keep all the free newspapers, and flip through one, I could get a nice wake up shot to go with my espresso. It’s how she dumps the wasted shots out, all bent over.” He smiled like a schoolboy. “I bet she does it on purpose even.”
“I couldn’t tell.” I never really looked at her like that. I finished my lunch and went back to my desk to work.
The next day, I stopped by the café for my morning cup. There was no line and no other customers, just me and her.
“Hey there,” she said, beaming. I smiled back and went to look at the painting again. Maybe she was right and I just couldn’t see it. It was gone though.
“Someone bought it yesterday.”
She steamed my milk and I walked around and looked at the other pieces while I waited. Nothing caught my eye. “I wish it would have been me,” I said, the screeching woosh of steaming milk drowned my voice out.
“Here ya be, sir” she said, when the drink was finished. I paid her and wished her a good day. On my way out I stopped and glanced at the free media rack. It was populated with local classifieds, alternative papers and a little post-it board filled with the numbers of locals offering goods and services.
I looked above the board and remembered, right as I saw it, the camera aimed at the end of the counter, in the line of sight of the cash register and the espresso machine. They’d installed it after their third robbery in a year.
“Any luck with that?” I asked, pointing at the camera with my cup.
“Kind of… I mean it hasn’t helped us catch the burglar if that’s what you mean,” she said.
I nodded, and took a sip from my latte, glad that she never burnt my milk.
