(Jaida's P.O.V.)
It was one of the slow days. Quiet. The room smelled of spices and warmth. A few people sat at the back tables, sipping their drinks, eating their pastries, typing on their computers.
But other than that, it was boring—painstakingly slow.
A man walked in then, the bell above the door giving a little jingle, and approached the register, and me, with sure, long strides.
He had messy blonde curls and wide, blue eyes. Freckles splayed out across the bridge of his nose, dotted lightly, like powdered sugar.
"I'm Araimir," he said cheerily.
I cocked a brow. "You know, you don't have to give your name until after you order, right?"
"Oh." He chuckled to himself, cheeks flushed pink. "I've never really... never really ordered by myself before."
I can tell.
I bit back the snarky response though, forcing a smile. It ached. Reciting the employee greeting, "Welcome to JoJo's Coffeehouse! What would you like to order today?"
The words, despite being well-rehearsed, still felt awkward and fake. They'd been fed to me multiple times by the manager and co-workers, but I hated saying them. Smiling so hard my face felt as though it'd split apart.
He squinted at the menu, written in colorful chalk on blackboard signs above my head. "I don't know. So many choices... what do you recommend?"
The sudden question shocked me, but I regained footing quickly. Plastering on a grin that was now real, but also sly.
"Personally," I say, "the black coffee is my favorite."
"Really?" He looked excited, though I had an inkling that he always did. "Then that's what I'll have."
Despite myself, guilt began to knot in the pit of my stomach, weighing heavily. "You've never had it before?"
"No," he fessed, "but I'd love to try it now. You look like someone that would make good coffee."
I don't even know what that means.
"How can someone look like they make good coffee?"
He motions to me, eyes lingering on my face until I feel myself warm. "The whole artsy bun, the reddish-brown hair, the... the employee apron?"
"The red in my hair is fake. And this bun is not artsy, I woke up late and couldn't shower." I pluck at the green, scratchy fabric of my uniform, scowling. "And this is horrendous. This green? Terrible. Disgusting. Snot-green, is what I call it."
"So quick to disprove yourself," he observes, staring at me for what feels like a little too long.
I wave him away, before I spout any personal nonsense to this man child of a customer. Araimir. "That coffee'll be $2.95." I pick up a cup, sharpie angled in hand. "How do I spell your name?"
My words come out flat, if not a little annoyed and sleep-deprived, but his smile softens his features—and mine. He's annoyingly contagious.
"A-R-A-I-M-I-R." He rustles through his wallet for money, pushing it my way. Then drops $5 in the tip-jar.
***
Ending: Araimir then makes a bunch of weird faces while drinking the coffee, not because Jaida made it—she does, in fact, make good coffee—but because it is black and so, so bitter. He drinks it all anyway though, and comes back the next day for more.
And the next. And the next. Trying to prove himself to be mature.
