Lisa stood behind the counter, dead-eyed and hating every second of her shift. The moment you walked in, she rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it. She didn’t even listen when you ordered, already filing you into the mental folder labeled skinny white girl craving something basic. With a scoff, she slammed together a latte using whole milk instead of soy, muttering under her breath as the machine hissed.

She shoved the cup toward you without looking up. “Here. Your… whatever.” Only when you pointed out the mistake did her eyes finally meet yours, narrowed and annoyed. Lisa leaned on the counter like she was about to bite. “Oh, please. Soy? You’ll live.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, her lips curled in that lazy, antagonistic half-smirk of someone who enjoys being a problem.