Reminding You

2. The Tip Jar

"The usual." His voice is husky with sleep and I recognize it immediately. I put the last clean mug in the cabinet and spin around.

"Well, good morning to you too, Professor Snape."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Professor? Hmm, speaking of, maybe I should teach you how to make coffee." Leaning down to place his elbows on the counter, he eyes me like I did the day before, taking twice the time to rake over my converse, skinny jeans, grey v-neck, and navy smock. "Yesterday's cup wasn't really up to the usual standards," he pauses, surveying me more, "Ravenclaw."

I raise my eyebrows, "I'm flattered and offended. Please enlighten me on what I could've possible down wrong to your plain ass black coffee."

"Cussing at a customer?" He tries to hide the smile forming behind his words. "That's strike two in addition to the sink water you served me yesterday."

"Maybe it sucked because you stuck your finger in it." Now we're both smirking.

"I demand to talk to the manager," he says while standing straight again to mockingly put both hands on his hips.

"Talk to the tip jar."

"I think I will. Now, please-" he stops, presumably trying to think of something. "I don't know anyone's name who's in Ravenclaw. What's yours?"

"Subtle," I accuse. "Also, I'm offended. Again."

"Well, I don't come with a suggestion box so get over it." He looks around for something, then suddenly rips an old receipt from behind the computer and places it in front of him. His eyes stare at my chest and I almost say something snarky until he reaches across and gently grabs the pen from my apron without touching me. I find myself impressed, grateful, and disappointed. 

"How do you know I'm not the one that reads them?" I ask knowing damn well the manager does in case people want to write something about any of the employees.

He looks at me cautiously, "Do you?"

"No," I answer, honestly.

He grins softly to one side, eyes twinkly with mischief. Scribbling something down, he folds the paper and walks over, tossing it into the suggestion jar before standing back in front of me and smiling. "Coffee, please?"

"I thought you didn't like it?"

"I'll give you the honor of trying to please me, again."

"Oh, wow. So kind," I say sarcastically and proceed to make the same exact cup of coffee as I did yesterday. Except without any paint. "Here or to go?"

"To go," he smiles.

"Somewhere to be?"

"No, it's Sunday," he says, gesturing to his jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket. "I'm off, so I don't feel like being around people."

"Mmm, I understand that," I agree and pass him the coffee. "Well? How is it?" I pretend to be scared of the answer, even though we both know it's a normal double espresso and tastes fine.

 Sipping, he winces. "Terrible," he deadpans. "I'll have to come back tomorrow and every day after that until you can make a decent one." I laugh loudly as he huffs, pretends to throw imaginary long hair over his shoulder and storms out into the sitting room.

I continue laughing as I clean the espresso machine and suddenly remember the note he put in the tip jar. Dumping half of them onto the counter, I pick up the one on top made from receipt paper and unfold it.

You little fucking rebel.
You wouldn't give me your name, so you can't have mine either.
555-746-9921

Questions? Comments? Concerns? I still have no idea what I'm doing. Okay, bye!