7 Days

A Great Start

The bell from the counter chimed routinely and I shuffled back up to the counter for my second round of coffee. For the customers, of course. I took the large tray onto my arm with a swift movement and my notepad with pen in my left hand. The customers I was serving were a good 4 tables away, through which I had to swivel and swerve to get to. As nice as the café was, it was quite small…

I inhaled deeply and started on my journey, taking a slow step behind an old gentleman’s chair. He groaned it forward to make it easier, but it didn’t help much. I sucked in my gut and pushed sidewards, nicking my elbow on a nearby wall lamp. I tinge of pain stung at the skin for a split second, but I ventured further, putting on my warrior face.

I managed to squeeze through that chair successfully, with only minor damage. Only three tables left. I can do this! But then, I suddenly felt the overwhelming, all too familiar, urge to gag as I took in a deep breath of air. In that deep breath of air I smelled my worst nightmare. Smoke.

I stopped in my tracks, probably leaving little skid marks, and looked around for the person violating the rules. I spotted a young man sitting a table down, cigarette in hand, taking long deep puffs. I weaved my way easily through the rest of my route in anger, gently placing two lattes in front of a gentle old couple and smiled. They returned it whole heartedly.

I turned away from the nice old people and stomped through a short gap to the young man smoking, sending him a fake smile. “Excuse me?” I said sweetly, effectively getting his attention. The man’s eyes scanned me over once, stopping my eyes. Then he nodded. “There is to be no smoking inside the Cup of Love. If you could please take that,” I pointed a finger at his cigarette. “Outside, it would be greatly appreciated.” I finished, dropping my hand to my side.

Seeing a person smoking has made me upset since the day my grandad died of emphysema. Me and my grandad were so close, he used to paint pictures of my grandmother at the beach and give them to me to display in my new house. I moved out on my 18th birthday. I did love my mum and step dad, they just smothered me way too much. I never had a life until I moved out.

Anyway, the smoker pushed out his chair a little, just enough to stand up. He walked over to a tall green pot plant a feet steps away and crushed the cigarette against the soil, squishing it thoroughly. I felt my mouth drop open. Who would do that in such a classy place like Cup of Love? This person was mentally unsound, I think. He then walked calmly back over and sat in his chair. What nerve!

“If that’s all, I’d like to order now, pretty lady.” He hinted, looking at me with deep blue eyes. I quickly snapped my jaw shut to stop from drooling at his foolishness and grudgingly took out my notepad, clicking the pen open with the other hand.

“What’ll it be?”

“A caramel latte, with one sugar. Flat teaspoon, please.” He ordered in an obvious British accent.

I nodded briskly and scampered through the maze of chairs to the front counter. It was like I was in one of those racing movies, where they put it in slow motion and you hear the deep ‘Nooooooo!’ in the background. While I was making way to the counter, I managed to tear the order from the book, and when I finally arrived at my destination, I clipped it in spinning, order rack thing. ‘Goal!’ I yelled mentally.

Iris looked at me strangely before rushing off to prepare the caramel thingy-majigy-mahimy. I listened to the smooth sounds of Iris preparing the milk froth for the top of the coffees. I always loved that stuff; it’s the best part of the whole drink. When I was a kid, my brother and I used to have competitions of who could get the bushiest froth moustache. He always one though, but I suspected it was because he was a male. Or maybe because he was a liar, liar pants on fire. Probably the former but you could never be sure.