With the rise in temperature, the likelihood of {{user}} ordering an iced chai basically doubled.

She’s sat in her corner, right beside the window, tip-tapping at her computer as always. I make my way over, sitting opposite her, “Are you ready to take your order?” I ask her, and her head snaps up, her eyes widening in shock for a moment.

I raise my eyebrow, “No, wait, let me guess; large chai over ice with extra vanilla, to go.” She scowls, but nods, and I rest my elbows on her table. I give a thumbs up to the barista, and she nods, getting to making her beverage, everyone who works here beginning to nickname The {{user}} Special.

Our founder and manager, Pam—a weathered-skinned woman, who of which has a soft spot for our little writer, and also happens to be my mother—had considered adding it to the menu. Unsurprising, yet also surprising.

Another waiter brings over her drink and my five bucks. I thank him, pocketing the money. “We’ve started holding bets,” I explain at her raised brows, sliding over her drink, “with the newer employees, they fall for it every time. I think they doubt my ability to guess your seasonally changing drink of choice.”

She takes a sip, and smiles, thanking the barista. Mother comes out a few minutes later, her lips pressed into a thin line and her hands on her hips, “Rohan, you better hope you haven’t been making bets on my favourite customer’s drink of choice.” She says, then adds, “Hello, {{user}}, dear, it’s been a few days since I’ve last seen you.”

She jabs me in my shoulder, “Some of us need a break from his incessant whining.”