Wendy Oneshot

The Usual (Part 1)

@a-nxny-mous

You were pissed.

Understandably so, of course. You're a creature of habit, and it annoys you like hell whenever you're forced to deviate from your usual routines. Add that the fact that you got approximately four hours of sleep the previous night trying to finish an essay and, well, nobody can blame you for your grouchy demeanor and general irritability today.

Your morning routine is simple: wake up, take a shower, get dressed, then head down to the coffee shop just a couple of blocks off campus for breakfast and a cup of coffee to tide you over your early morning classes.

It hasn't changed ever since you were a freshman, and now you're in your final year and so close to graduating and you've done this for four whole years, and now, out of nowhere, you find yourself riding your bike to the coffee shop as always. prepared to chain in to the fence and duck indoors for your usual order, when suddenly you're faced with a long queue of people, spilling out of the shop and onto the streets, and what the hell is going on here?

You hover near the entrance for a few minutes, trying to figure out what's happening, and then that's when you overhear a gaggle of girls near the front of the queue whispering about the hot new barista that started work yesterday, and so-and-so said that the drinks here are totally out of this world, and you just don't have time for this. Don't these people have a class to get to or something?

Well, evidently not, because the queue is still there and not moving, you're a creature of habit, and it annoys you whenever you're forced to deviate from your usual routines, but it seems like you don't have a choice today.

So you get back on your bike and ride off, heading back towards the direction you cam from.

There's another coffee shop that you pass by on the way to this one-you've never been there, not out of any deliberate avoidance, but just because why would you when there's a better, more familiar alternative just a few blocks down the street?

Well-that's not entirely true. There is a hint of avoidance in there, too. Just a bit. You've been there once, a year ago when you decided to "change things up a little bit", and had ended up with your drink almost spilled over you shirt courtesy of a orange-headed server who ended up getting hauled away by an angry purple-headed coworker.

Needless to say, that was the day you decided that "changing this up" wasn't exactly the brightest thing to do.

So it's a combination of your irritability from having to break a familiar routine and your previous experience at this particular joint that causes a certain apprehension to pool in your gut as you pull up in front of the café.

The café hasn't changed much since your last visit a year ago-the same pastel pink-painted walls with wooden flooring, the counter tucked away to the side, calming music playing softly from the speakers. The whole place smells faintly of vanilla and coffee. It's actually kinda nice, really. Your memory of the place must have been really colored by that bad experience to have had such an unrightfully bad impression of the place.

It's also, of course, completely empty-business obviously have been cleaned out by the suddenly-all-the-rage café just down the street.

You suddenly feel strangely self-conscious for being the only patron at the store, but you shrug it off, telling yourself that you're just here for coffee, and it's with that thought that you step forward to the counter.

There's nobody there, and you can't really blame them-they're obviously not expecting anyone, not with business like this-so you press the little bell that's bee thoughtfully placed next to the cash register and wait for someone to take your order. In the meanwhile, you occupy yourself with looking at the menu (even though you already knew what you're going to have: a medium cappuccino, to go, because you are a creature of habit, and just because you're in a new shop doesn't mean you're going to get a new order too).

It takes less than a minute for you to hear rapid footsteps coming towards you and you straighten up, half-expecting to see either the orange-head or her shorter, purple-haired coworker with a murderous expression.

It's neither of them.

"Sorry for the wait," the barista says, and your order dies right on the tip of your tongue.

The barista isn't particularly tall, she's slim in a way you have never been, and her eyes, a shade of brown that practically shines, or maybe it's just your imagination, but you're pretty sure it's not.

"Excuse me," the barista says, smiling at you apologetically. "Can I take your order?"

It's only then that you realize you've been staring, and it take all your willpower not to turn and run right out the store then and there.

"Um," you say intelligently. "I'll have a medium capp-cappu-" Shit. "I mean, a medium cappuccino to go, thanks."

"Okay," the barista says, smiling gently, and it's then that you realize your heart has been beating at an irregular pace, and oh shit, you are so fucked-"One medium cappuccino to go, coming right up."

The barista disappears to prepare your order and your whole body practically sags, elbows pressed against the counter as you stare down at the floor and contemplate every single life choices you've made until this very moment.

You're dead, You're so dead. You're not going to make it to your morning class, because you're going to dig yourself a hole in the ground and just stay there for the rest of your pathetic, miserable life.

It's then that the barista chooses to reappear, breezing in effortlessly, almost soundlessly, and you jump up, straightening almost immediately and realizing simultaneously that you probably look like a complete tool right now.

"Here you go," the barista says, still smiling, and you look down at the name tag pinned on your chest.

Hi, my name is Wendy, it read.

"Thanks," you say, and manage to pay for your drink with minimal casualties, and if your hand brushes against Wendy's almost infinitesimally as you exchange money, you definitely don't shiver at the touch or anything like that, because that would just be embarrassing, and you got over that phase along with acne, way back in middle school.

You definitely don't leave the coffee shop in a daze, drink growing cold in your hand, your mind filled with nothing but those brown eyes and how Wendy's voice would sound like if she said your name, and if she smelled like vanilla and coffee outside of her job.

Yeah. You definitely don't. At all.

You find yourself at the café again the next morning. Only because the stupid queue in front of your usual hangout hasn't let up at all-if anything, it's grown even longer. It's not because you're hoping to see the barista again or anything like that at all whatsoever.

Or at least, that's what you tell yourself as you chain up your bike and walk into the store, feeling oddly nervous.

It only gets worse when you spot Wendy standing there behind the counter again-the shop's not empty today, a few customers sitting at the table, and there's someone at the counter buying a drink.

You swallow lump that has formed in your throat and make your way to the counter just as the other customer takes his leave.

"Good morning," Wendy greets you, smiling in a way that looks so genuine that it almost floors you for a moment. "Welcome back to the Red Velvet Café."

"Yeah," you say, because you're clearly the smartest one in the room right now. "Um, can I have a medium cappuccino to go, please?" When you mange to get all the words out right this time, you allow yourself some measure of satisfaction-small victories, you think to yourself. Small victories.

"One medium cappuccino to go, coming right up," Wendy says, the exact same phrase she used yesterday, and you wonder if she says that after serving every single customer who comes by.