Hell Is Other People by Danielle Bellwood (books under 200 pages .txt) 📕

sender. Anonymous. Huh. Oh, well. He shrugged and canned the cryptic note in the phone’s recycle bin.

The coffee line hadn’t moved. He should probably ditch the daily java and hightail it to work since he was supposed to be seated at his desk in five minutes flat but he didn’t think he could survive without coffee so… guess he’d just be late.

 

***

The beautiful barista wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. It was sweltering in the coffee shop. A line of sweat dripped down her neck, soaking the collar of her off-white t-shirt. She cringed at the image of the moist cotton, dingy and stained from spilled coffee and dust from the consistently filthy equipment. The poor woman abhorred filth with a passion that bordered on fanaticism. She was a bona fide neat freak with a healthy aversion to people, so customer service would definitely not have been her first choice. Or even her second. No choice at all really. Merely a job. One that paid for… well, no perks that she could see.

She shoved the tall plastic cups of green tea at the old couple before her and made eye contact with the next customer in line. The mid-thirties man looked good in the dark sport coat and matching slim-cut slacks that must have cost an arm and a leg. Compared to her dingy, faded Java Joe’s uniform tee, his clean, pure white button-up collar practically sparkled.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I’ll have a…” his words petered out and he squinted at her as though he found it suddenly difficult to see in the buzzing halogens of the coffee haus.

“A what? There’s a whole line of people waiting, in case you didn’t notice,” she said.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“Have you ever ordered a coffee before?” she said.

“Yeah… I think so,” he said.

She waited a moment longer before deciding that he was apparently not bright enough to realize that was his cue to order.

“You come in this shop every day. Duh.”

“No…” he said slowly. “That’s not it…”

“What. Do. You. Want. To. Drink?” She barked at him. So over his line, whatever it might be.

“Oh, sorry.” He laughed nervously. The faint chuckle set her nerves on edge and it took every ounce of will power not to reach across the counter and wring his neck. “I’ll have a medium latte with a single shot of espresso. Skim milk. Iced.”

The snarl melted from her face and she stared at him in shock. Her mouth may have even dropped open a teeny bit. “That’s my drink.”

“Is it?” he said, confused. “Oh well… I guess… give me a large caramel macchiato. Hot. With extra whipped cream.””

“What?” she said. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t make it. I just meant… ugh never mind.”

The handsome young executive smiled and held out a credit card on the palm of his hand, waiting for her to take it from him. The barista stared at the palm and five fingers like it was the strangest, most obscure thing she had ever seen.

Once, when she was a small child, the barista’s uncle, Jean Paul, took her to see a department store Santa Claus. She begged and pleaded with her uncle to let her stay home. She didn’t want to wait in a line with a bunch of coughing, sneezing, obnoxious children, even though she was a child. She didn’t want her picture taken by some short girl in a pair of ratty elf ears. And most of all, she didn’t want to have a stranger touch her, even if that stranger supposedly had a bag of candy and toys. Not because every after school special on TV warned against that very scenario, but because she was horrified by germs. And dirt. And crowds. And so much crushed red velvet. Yikes.

The hand attached to the arm attached to the guy with the wide smile and perfectly combed head of hair looked clean enough but you could never be too careful. As she turned away to prepare his coffee, he lowered the hand holding the card to his side.

“Slide it yourself,” she said.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckled, the sound chilling the barista’s soul like a goose had just walked over her grave.

Hmm. What does that phrase even mean, really? She shrugged it off. The snapping electricity of her anxiety eased a teensy bit as he swiped the probably germ-infested card through the card reader.

The executive leaned over the counter to watch as she snapped the stainless-steel cup of grounds in place and flicked the start switch on the brewer. She was really proficient on that ancient-looking espresso machine. Just over a minute and a half later, she sprayed a generous mound of whipped cream onto the steaming surface of hot coffee in the tall cup on the counter.

She gritted her teeth in annoyance as the guy loomed uncomfortably close, squinting as he looked carefully at her face.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” he said. “I mean, somewhere else…”

She drew in a deep breath, reminding herself not to lose her cool again like last time. She didn’t actually remember the alleged ‘yelling incident’ but her boss assured her that it was unacceptable. One more poor performance review and she “may not like what happens next,” he said. She snorted to herself at the hollow threat. What could he possibly do to her that was worse than working in this hell hole day in and day out?

She didn’t know how long she’d worked at Java Joe’s but it felt like forever.

She grabbed a squeeze bottle of caramel and drizzled it all over the rapidly melting whipped cream and jammed the lid on top angrily. Picking up the tall drink of java from the counter, she held the sweet treat out at arm’s length in a clear sign of ‘here’s your shit, GTFO.’

As he reached for the cup, his fingers brushed hers and a spark like a bolt of lightning sizzled up her arm. Her eyes widened and she stared at him as