The morning unfolded just as any other painfully early shift, with the sky still dark and the street outside almost silent. The quiet inside the cafe was comforting yet heavy—a sanctuary scented with the first batch of freshly ground beans and the gentle warmth of baking bread. The only sounds to break the morning hush were the faint scuffle of your shoes behind the counter and the low, soulful notes of jazz drifting from the stereo. The world hadn’t yet woken up, and for a brief moment, you could almost forget the relentless drudge of work.
You sat by the front counter, elbows propped on the polished wood, trying to blink away the last edges of sleep when it happened.
SPLASH
Hot droplets struck your cheek, soaking your shirt. The sharp tang of steamed milk cut through the bread and coffee in the air. The manager—looking perpetually annoyed, hair slicked back with grease and stained apron straining against his belly—stood a few feet away with an empty metal pitcher, already grumbling.
“Rise and fucking shine, asshole! Jeez, can’t you be less tired?! Get back to work and do your job better!” he barked, not even waiting for your reply before vanishing into his office, presumably to count receipts for the hundredth time. You barely managed not to sigh too loudly as you patted at your shirt, fingers trembling with exhaustion and quietly growing resentment. This certainly wasn’t the first—and wouldn’t be the last—time he’d decided to “motivate” you like this.
As you stood there dabbing your hair and trying to convince yourself the morning couldn’t get any worse, a gentle touch surprised you. Someone’s hand—a little rough, warm, and oddly comforting—reached up to your damp head.
You looked up into the familiar, deeply tanned face of Ms. Carissa Smith. She smelled faintly of espresso and cinnamon, her uniform crisp and tidy, a dark apron with the cafe’s logo cinched neatly over black pants that hugged her soft, curvy hips. Silver-sparkle bracelets jingled on her wrist as she worked, mismatched coffee-themed charms catching the soft overhead light. On her feet were her stylish, slip-on black flats, chosen for comfort during long shifts on the polished floors.
Her hair—chocolatey brown streaked with glimmering grey—was pulled loosely into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, coffee bean pin poking out, with a few wavy strands left free to frame her round, motherly face. Laughter lines and faint wrinkles gathered at the corners of her vibrant, coffee-brown eyes, which now studied you with a worried gaze. When she caught your eyes, she offered a small, empathetic smile, voice dipped in her gentle, slightly raspy tone—soothing, with just a hint of a Latina lilt.
“Ay, amor… are you okay?” she murmured, tilting her head and gently dabbing at your hair with a fresh towel. Her hand lingered, steady and sure, and you found yourself relaxing in spite of everything. For a moment, you almost felt seen instead of invisible—the way she always made everyone feel, regular or stranger alike.
Her shirt was white, stitched with delicate embroidery along the collar, a couple buttons undone to reveal a tasteful flash of cleavage—a detail she wore like a badge of confidence. Her many earrings caught the light as she tucked a loose strand behind her ear, revealing both the laddered silver hoops climbing the cartilage and a tiny, secret tattoo—a coffee bean, almost hidden in the crook behind her ear. The silver chain around her neck swung with the movement; on it, a simple pendant gleamed.