As I open the door, the alluring scent of freshly ground roast compels me to join the herd of customers eagerly seeking their morning fix. I wish I was lucky enough to have an addiction to something so smooth and perfect, but it's something I've only dreamed of since the one time I tasted it from my dad's mug. My mother always claims I will stunt my growth when I try to take a sip of her latte. "I have to take this call, it's work," she says as she hands me cash, "just order your pastry and I'll have my usual."
I approach the glistening glass of pastries and scan for that flakey bundle of sweetness my taste buds had the pleasure of indulging once before. My eyes find the golden roll containing deep brown batons made of sweet cocoa. My mouth waters at the sight of the soft, flakey roll. I feel my stomach grumble and moan in agony while I stare at that buttery French pastry. While approaching the counter, I see the tall, curly-haired barista with a cartoon-like mustache look down at me, waiting for my order. I order mom's drink and I quietly and hastily ask for my breakfast. "How about a good ol' cup of joe to go with that" he says, staring at me.
My palms sweat, my cheeks redden and I don't know why, but I can't resist. "Sure, with extra sugar and cream," I whisper with my head down. Then, I quickly hand him the cash and stand in the waiting line. The drive-through operator talks into the microphone like an auctioneer and I can barely decide whether or not she is speaking English. The speed of her voice makes me so nervous that I look back outside while mom is still talking on the phone. Before I try to make out the words she is saying, the fizzing and screeching of the foam-making contraption interrupts my staring. I look up at the person controlling the device and he seems to be the most experienced of the baristas since he is quickly, but perfectly making each order. He must have the process down to a fine art because he doesn't look frustrated at all from controlling such a complicated machine. Finally, he shouts my name and I squeeze through the crowd, my shoulders colliding with the towering people beside me. I shuffle through the crowd, trying to find an open table. I am reunited with the glorious pastry known as a croissant.
First, I feel the softness of the fluffy dough against my fingertips and I slowly sink my teeth into it. Then, I taste the perfectly buttered surface of the soft dough and my tongue finally touches the smooth and rich chocolate center which melts too quickly. I set the pastry down on the crinkling wrapper and pick up the warm latte. The heat of the coffee radiates out of the paper cup and seeps into my palms, giving me such a radiant sensation. I must learn how it feels to have the hot liquid coat my throat, so I lower my head, inhaling it's sweet, indescribable scent. The steam rises and it clouds around my face, refreshing my skin. I lift the delectable latte and touch the rim to my lips.
I see my mom outside without the phone up to her ear. She's texting someone though so it buys me some time. I first enjoy a taste of the coffee, but I worry I'm running out of time. So, I down the whole mug, not letting a single drop go to waste and I scarf down the rest of my pastry which is way better than my usual chocolate milk and Eggo Waffle breakfast. Just like I predicted, she quickly comes back inside and luckily I'm right next to the waste can so I chuck my empty mug and hope she wasn't looking. When she approaches the table, I hope that her cappuccino masks the smell of my coffee breath. I look down, trying not to breathe through my mouth. "Where's the change?" my mom demands. She must have had a tough business call. Mom never can handle a business call this early in the morning, especially when she isn't being paid for the extra phone time. Not having caffeine in her system doesn't make it any better.
"Oh, here," I don't say much so she won't hear the guilt in my voice. Mom always knows when something is not right, even when I am across the room.
"I'm missing some cash, our order is always the same amount," she says and walks up to the cashier to get the rest of her change. She argued with him for a minute until he tells her that her order cost more this time. I can't believe my mom has to question the barista. Her order is only three dollars off. She went two weeks before noticing that my sister took a fifty dollar bill out of her Vera Bradley wallet. "Did you raise your prices?" she begins to speak louder.
"No ma'am, your daughter over there ordered another coffee," the curly-haired man insisted. Why did he have to say something? Couldn't he just have let her keep ranting instead of ruining my moment? I should have never been tempted to buy coffee. I just knew this was coming and I had to do it anyway.
"Oh really?" she said, then she turns around and comes back to our table. She sits down, not saying a word for what feels like hours.
"Mom?" I whisper, hoping that the gentleness of my voice makes her give in. I look up at her and see the beauty of her thick, brown hair which catches the sunlight. I've always been jealous of her dark brown hair and perfect cheekbones. She still isn't cracking and her face won't even give me a clue to her emotions. I'm just waiting for her to say something. Anything would be better right now than the buzzing of people's voices in this confined area.
"She finally looks at me with her soft, blue eyes and says, "I'm glad you've stunted your growth, now you'll always be my little girl."
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DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. THIS MY OWN STORY AND I DO NOT GIVE ANYONE PERMISSION TO COPY.
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