When a friend asked him to help out at their café, Tim hadn't known what to expect. When told what the job entailed, Tim had expected that a part-time job at a cat café would involve, well, cats.

Then he'd been given a frilly catgirl maid outfit. He'd thought he'd be feeding cats, or something. But no. He was serving lattes dressed like this. Now every time he awkwardly balanced trays or stuttered taking orders he regretted his every life choice. The bell around his neck jingled with his every movement, reminding him that everything he'd done in his life up until this point had led him here. To this café. This dress. These kitty ears. In fact, every single thing that had happened from the universe's inception had converged into this singularly humiliating moment.

If that wasn't proof that the universe was sentient and actively hated Tim, he didn't know what it was.

"This isn't even a cat café," he grumbled to a coworker. "It's a maid café! There's a difference! I was told I'd be working at a cat café, and those have actual cats that—"

It suddenly occurred to Tim that maybe his tired-looking coworker wasn't as incensed about the mistake in nomenclature. He cleared his throat, biting his lip sheepishly. "Oh, uh. Sorry. I'm rambling again. You probably don't want to deal with all this and listen to me complain on top of it, huh?" Tim frowned. "I'll...go back to serving tables now."