"Chrissy! Open the door!"
Just as I'm watering my beautiful kumquat and trying to distract myself, the phone beeps, and I growl as I realize that I'm not the only whose day was ruined because of Mr. fungus's annoyingness.
Is this your hot boss shou...
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I've always been told that I'm a natural with everything plant related. I can salvage sick plants, get few out of the dead, and even make some mean dishes out of them. Coffee is no exception, those little brown beans I used to roast, grind and turn into drinks worth dying for. Little did I know that my skills only covered that good old basic black coffee. With everything happening in my life lately, though, I wouldn't be surprised if that skill of mine got flushed away from me just like every piece of dignity and money I had left.
"Let me make sure I got this straight," I say, adjusting the apron barely covering my hips, "Espresso plus caramel plus milk makes a Vienna."
"Freddo!" shouts Ginko, banging her forehead on the counter.
"Who's Freddo?"
"The drink you just described!" she shouts, her eyes getting more and more elongated as she shoots me death glares.
"Wasn't that one called Alfredo?"
"Oh wow, who would've thought she'd be so bad at it!?"
"Oh shut up, Dan!"
Let's be honest, here. Dan is not entirely wrong. Never in a million years have I thought that I'd suck at something that appears to be so easy. Ginko makes it look so smooth, so fool-proof. Now that I'm on the other side of the counter, I can see how much work it takes to give people that heavenly brown drink they all seem to crave.
"...so Vienna's Espresso and liquor?" I ask, closing my eyes since Ginko seems on the verge of exploding and ending everything and everyone around her.
"That's Corretto!" she replies.
"What the heck is Vienna, then?!"
"Espresso and whipped cream," says a voice that seems to be stuck to me no matter where I go or what I do. With the doorbell ring fading out, he steps in, the green of his eyes radiant as ever and the smile stretching his lips telling me he's definitely up to something. As light penetrates from the shop's glass façade and outlines a picturesque physique, he walks in like a hero fresh out of promise land while my two friends watch in marvel the grand entrance of yet that same fungus.
"Hallelujah, thank the heavens! How did you know it?" asks Ginko, anime-style stars forming in her eyes.
"Perks of working in a coffee shop for three years," he proudly says, the black shirt twisting around his muscles as he rests his elbows on the counter. I still remember when Mr. fungus was nominated best barista in college. Not that it was an actual thing, but the girls there thought they'd throw a title at him as they wait in an endless line like the barista groupies they are. I mean, who waits in line, with a hundred or so other people just to get a coffee? Sure, he did make some mean Lattes, but that doesn't mean that I'll waste three hours of my day waiting for him to throw milk over an espresso shot.
