Latte Memoire
(Title is temporary until writter changes it.)
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five lattes. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five Starbucks memories.
I knew her only by the small snatches of conversation I overheard while waiting behind her every Thursday morning. She was always in a rush, always on the phone to this colleague or that colleague. Her conversations were almost always the same: “I told you to do this, and you did that. When your idea failed, you came crawling back to me with an apology. Know why I’m not accepting? Because you didn’t listen to me. Now, go clean up your mess and have my idea running in the next two hours or you are fired.” Or something to that effect. She was always threatening to fire someone.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five hours spent waiting in line. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five sips taken to finish my vanilla frappe.
The cashier, that elderly lady that always smells like caramel and cat pee, knew this vibrant woman by look and drink, and greeted her as such. “Ah, Ms. Cinnamon Dolce Latte with skim milk and an added pump of vanilla! Who are we firing today?” To which Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla would smile and mouth the name of the employee she was currently arguing with.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five straws given per day. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five dollars spent to buy said straws.
One day our lady arrived with a friend. The child was small, barely old enough to toddle after her to the counter. The elderly lady smiled down at the newest customer. “Well, hello! And who do we have with us today?’ She always said we, as though everyone was willing to include her in their everyday lives. The child focused his big caramel eyes at the elderly cashier and puffed out his cheeks. Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla scooped up the boy. He curled his legs around her hips. “This is my nephew. I’m babysitting him for the day. Preparing for my own, someday.” Her eyes grew slightly misty. The whole café let out a collective breath at her wistfulness and the boy’s unbearable adorableness.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five thoughts of changing “the usu.” Three thousand six hundred ninety-five decisions to remain steady.
Those of us that spent the most time haunting the Starbucks every Thursday morning noticed a change in Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla after the visit from her nephew. She grew quieter on the phone, offering tidbits of advice as to how this mess may be swept under the rug or how to get her project started smoothly once clean-up ended. Once, to celebrate some achievement of her employees, she changed up order: 1% milk instead of skim. The elderly lady raised her eyes but made the change smoothly. We all paused in our decisions, noticing that the most steadfast of our company leaping off the bandwagon.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five smiles for each latte. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five breaths taken to shout out drink names.
The last day we saw Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla was just another Thursday morning. The moment that sets it apart was when our elderly cashier let out a gasp while taking Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla’s money. “Look at the SIZE of that DIAMOND!!” Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla smiled sheepishly and timidly offered her hand to the rest of the line. “His name is Jared. And yes, he went to Jared’s. Clever fellow. Really sweet, good with kids. We’re getting married in June.” We all smiled and offered to buy her drink. She hesitantly accepted.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five ‘thank you’s.” Three thousand six hundred ninety-five times the bell rings as people walk out the door.
Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla never returned to Starbucks. Or, if she did, it wasn’t during our usual rush time. Our elderly cashier joked that since she became married, she turned into Mrs. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla. We smiled, chuckled, paid, and moved on. Months flew by. I spent more time at Starbucks, hoping to run into her, ask her how life is, if children of her own have arrived yet. Each day brought disappointment. Eventually I gave up and returned to my usual Thursday time.
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five pumps of vanilla. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five calories in each pump.
I found our lady one evening while reading the newspaper. No, she hadn’t made front page for accidently firing her undercover boss on that new television show. She showed up in the obituaries. Turns out that baby she wanted so badly killed her. An unknown aneurism ruptured in her brain while she was giving birth. The baby lived, has eyes just like his mom, according to the father’s “teary-eyed” quote. Heading into Starbucks the following morning, I discovered wet eyes all around me. The elderly cashier saw me coming. She read my lips and nodded. “She’s gone to the big café in the sky.” I nodded. “What can I get you this morning, Mr. Vanilla Frappuccino with nonfat whipped cream?” I held her gaze. I know the people behind me were waiting. I touched her hand gently.
“One Cinnamon Dolce Latte with skim milk and an added pump of vanilla, please.”
Three thousand six hundred ninety-five lattes. Three thousand six hundred ninety-five Starbucks memories.
One Ms. Cinnamon-Dolce-Latte-with-skim-milk-and-an-added-pump-of-vanilla.
*Submission by : Schizophrenic Nightmares*
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