October.
Working at a Starbucks is not a very creative job, now that I look back at the year and a half I've spent cramped in the tiny workspace in this tiny coffee shop, located at the corner of the street in Manhattan. Not that I didn't enjoy it, because I did, because not only did I memorize all of the drinks like the back of my hand, but the fact that there are so many different people with different stories to tell behind those masks of theirs, it really did fascinate me to at least try to make a little conclusion on how their personalities are, or just them in general, just by how they like their coffee.
Like how the old man in the knitted dark green sweater and flat cap liked his coffee black; it tells me that he's tempered and waspish, being isolated from everyone as he sits on the little stool chair. But you could also tell he's sad, as if the small amount of people around him in this café were some reminder that he hasn't got much time left. It was like an air of melancholy surrounded the atmosphere around him. Or the blonde woman that came in almost everyday with a business attire and a briefcase. She ordered chamomile tea and nothing else; it was obvious she wasn't very fond of change, but it seemed like she wanted to at the same time.
My fellow employee, Michael, tells me it's "creepy" and "weird" how I make these small conclusions on other people and how "it doesn't make me a sudden poet or makes me any more of a deep person just because I enjoy these things", while I told him that it wasn't even my intention and I just do it because it's fun, and flipped him off.
There was one person in particular that caught my attention, though. A boy, who looked no older that 23 and no younger that 18, who came in, ordered, got his drink and walked right out. His hair was blond, and it was either in a quiff, or just pushed to the side, like he didn't bother to look good that morning (which was impossible for a looker like him). His eyes were an ice blue, and I'd never looked into them intently because he'd avoid everyone's gaze, let alone mine. But I could tell they would give you a warm feeling inside despite the sharp colour.
He came in occasionally, but the thing about him is, he'd order a completely different beverage every time he came in - a cookie or a pastry once in a while - get what he ordered and leave the café, only to have him sit on the little bench with a post lamp next to it, which was across the café, writing in a little black journal.
The boy would never order with a particular name, that was the problem. He'd normally just grumpily tell me or whoever was at the register to "Just call out the drink, alright? I doubt anyone else in this place would order the same thing I did, considering there aren't even tens of people in here." He was cutoff.
There was something intriguing about this boy, and I wanted to find out what exactly is it about him that makes him so interesting, but he never stayed, so I never found out.
But I want to.
"Tobe, I can see you looking at him, again." Michael complained as he walked up from behind me, and he was right, this mysterious boy had come in and ordered a regular coffee, adding two sugars and a little cup of cream before sitting on that bench. I was at the counter taking orders, thankfully having no one in line otherwise they'd complain as well, seeing me being distracted by a boy I didn't even know. "You know, people say it's rude to stare."
"I'm not staring," I retorted, "I just - why does he sit out there, when there are so many empty seats here? It's so weird." I spoke, taking in the small café. There were probably eight people here in total, and a couple shared a laugh in the corner. I smiled a bit at that. Young love.
"Right," Michael remarked, rolling his eyes. "It's damn clear that you think he's attractive," he said, wiping the counter behind me as I eyed the boy sitting across the street. "If I was a girl, I'd think he'd be alright as well." My eyes widened as I took my eyes off the boy and onto my light haired best friend and began to laugh.
"What?" Michael shrugged, as I continued my laughter, "Just because I think he looks cool doesn't mean I'm gay."
"I wasn't implying that."
"It seemed like you were."
"It was just funny. I've never heard any guy say that before."
Michael smiled and my laughter died down, whipping my back lightly with the tea towel he used to clean the slightly messy counter. "Oi, pay attention to your job," Michael growled teasingly, "I don't pay you for sitting around staring at people all day."
"You don't pay me at all, actually," I giggled, playing along, taking a quick glance at the front of the register, making sure that no one was in line to order, and turning back to face my annoying piece of shit of a friend. "Because the last time I checked, you're an employee, not a manager."
"I don't like you anymore. You're fired."
"No, you're fired."
"No, you are. I fired you first."
"You fired me 'cause I fired you."
"No I didn-"
"If you don't cut that out, you'll both be fired," Our manager, Bruce, snapped, peeking around the corner of the back of the café. "October, Clifford, get back to work."
"Oh s-sorry. Y-yes Mr. Manager, sir." Michael stuttered as Bruce rolled his eyes, disappearing into the back of the café as I tried to stifle a laugh. I turn to back to the register machine and look up to the bench outside to see that the boy was long gone, and I try to hide my slight disappointment and get the order of the young lady in front of me. "Hi, what can I get you?"
