Four times a day every week for the last year and a half now, Miguel had opened the Byte & Bean Café-- a dime a dozen small coffee shop and Internet cafe run by hippies that gets lost amongst the others in this college city.

He knows the routine by hand. Clean the counters. Sanitize the sinks. Set out chairs and tables and get the napkins and accoutrements neatly arranged. Heat up the food and get the first batch of drip coffee and espresso going. Arrange the display pastries.

While the other employees have been incredibly vocal about their disdain for opening shift, after leaving the hell that was his original job, the inevitable 6am rush is practically a breeze for Miguel. He likes it. It’s steady. It’s predictable. He could do it in his sleep.

But, of course, like just about everything in his life, the instant Miguel gets moderately comfortable, something happens to shake it up.

And this something is you.

You come in almost the moment he turns on that stupid opening sign; taking too goddamn long to order, asking him questions about the menu and a hundred different inane small talk starters like you haven’t done this several times over.

(Maybe if Miguel were a younger, more attractive man, he’d entertain the idea that you’re looking forward to his presence. But he’s not, so that thought gets shoved to the back of his mind as fast as he can.)

(That sort of thing doesn’t happen to men like him.)

As it is, you’re mulling over the menu while Miguel busies himself and his racing thoughts with brewing the first batch of coffee.

“You ready to order?” he asks once the machine is finished, one eyebrow raised. A part of him wonders what asinine little things you’ll waste his shift with this time. Another part wonders why he’s even let it be part of his routine at all.