The smell of coffee beans and mahogany bursts suddenly as I open the wide-set glass doors to the local Starbucks on my street. Wearing a black collared shirt with the Starbucks logo sewn into my chest, I tie the rich emerald green apron, stitched carefully with cotton thread, and prepare for the evening shift. The outdoor mall by the university had just opened up a fourth Starbucks on the property, but this one is “unique” in the sense that it sells nice wines, from way back in the 1960s. It’s supposed to give off the vibe that Starbucks has become “fancy” and “low key cool,” but it just seems pretentious to me. Of course I can’t give my opinion on the new Starbucks considering I work there, so I serve French roast in silence, hoping someone will say something that my minimum-wage job does not allow.

It was an average autumn Thursday evening. We had just re-introduced the pumpkin spice latte to the menu; therefore the café was crowded with consumers looking for a little jolt. Tonight, for some unknown reason, I had to take the evening shift for a coworker. It wasn’t bad though because I had the opportunity to watch the sunset, the partly cloudy horizon turning various shades of pink, purple, and orange due to air pollution. The day was coming to a close, and the shop began attracting an older crowd, one that I don’t usually see around here. Older couples began coming in two at a time, at first nonchalantly, so I didn’t make anything of it. Ugh, great. I’m serving drinks to a geezer fest. 

I walk around with a damp towel wiping tables, and I see a peculiar elder couple sitting in the far corner of the café by the window. A man and a woman, the woman with brunette hair, short and sweet, aged with sophistication, and the man with a navy sweater and few grey streaks in his otherwise black hair. They almost look like a couple from a Bond movie. I should probably ask them if they were in any movies, but no, that’s way too creepy, like this whole situation. Ever since this Starbucks started selling wine, this place has gotten a little suggestive. There has been more of an attraction of older people, like in their mid forties or something, and they all seem to be smitten. Maybe even with each other. Geez I hope not. I used to see an abundance of college students with their laptops, shaking their limbs from the caffeine flowing through their blood streams precariously. Now I see many half drunken, horny, middle aged folk that have an itch they really need to scratch. I wonder if there is a secret brothel under this establishment.

I took another look at the Bond couple at the far table, and I realize that one of them looks a little too familiar. I knew I saw that navy sweater at thanksgiving last year. F***. That’s my dad. And what’s he doing with another woman? The unnamed woman placed her hand lightly on top of my fathers’, stroking his thumb with hers. My cheeks turned from a rosy pink to a raging red. I can’t even approach them. I don’t have the guts. It would kill mom if she found out. S*** I don’t know what to do. Why won’t the f***ing French roast save me from my misery? I wish these other geezers would notice that my dad is a lying, cheating bastard, who puts on the persona of a man in a happy home.

I decide to do a little spying. I grab the mop from the back room, and take it for a stroll around the shop. While pretending to mop the already clean floors, I attempt to get closer to their table in order to listen to their conversation. I casually mop by them and I hear nothing but muffles and giggles, so I take a closer look at their faces when I get a weird glare. I think they’re on to me. Keep moving. There weren’t any expressions of recognition though, which I thought was weird considering that was my cheating dad at the table. I kept hearing the muffles as I walked by them, but nothing I could specifically make out. They look like they want to kiss. I need my French roast now more than ever. It’s what keeps me awake. It’s my 5-hour energy every hour of the day until falling asleep is inevitable. I think I’m going insane. Maybe I should stop drinking so much of what I serve because I haven’t actually slept more than 2 hours a night because of it. But man, I really need that French roast.

I decide to quit mopping considering the shop consists of 6 couples, and not one of these couples is my parents. I put the mop away, but forget to put up the “caution wet floor” sign. Stupid, I know. I could get sued. I walk in the direction of the trash bin to clean up for the evening, and I slip on the very same spot I had just mopped. After hitting my head on the corner of the nearby table, reality hit me as well. No one was in the café but me. It was 9:30pm, which meant closing time. And I am actually all alone.